


Gnat Years

by AngryGayFriend



Series: Sexyism [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Race Changes, Crossdressing, Drug Use, Everyone rides the Struggle Bus, Grantaire is the official bus driver, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Other, Slurs, hot messery all up in here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-03
Updated: 2013-10-08
Packaged: 2017-12-22 08:00:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/910815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngryGayFriend/pseuds/AngryGayFriend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They are a hot mess, and Grantaire feels like he is the Struggle Bus driver trying to navigate it all. He falls irrevocably in love with the sassiest social justice warrior in a sundress and is doomed from the moment he first lays eyes on him. No one said college would be easy, not least as QPOC Grantaire deals with a whole lotta gay, not a lotta money, and more self-loathing than socially acceptable. Lots of queer/race/social stuff goin' down.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hope is Not a Course of Action

**Author's Note:**

> So this is the result of me doing some emotional processing when I was feeling shitty and an attempt to challenge non-canon commonalities in the fandom, especially the problematic ones. (Yeah, I said it) 
> 
> Multicultural queer stuff happens and happens a lot, so my gender/race/sexuality-bending isn't an attempt at tokenism, but this is what I've experienced in a lot of real life social justice spaces. So if you have a problem with that part of it, you need to get out more.  
> k nao im dun.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All of this is just Grantaire intro chapter  
> title taken from "Hurling Crowbirds at Mockingbars" by Buddy Wakefield  
> tw for mental health, self-harm, uncensored slurs, alcohol and drug use/abuse

 

> _If we were created in God’s image_  
>  then when God was a child  
>  he smushed fire ants with his fingertips  
>  and avoided tough questions.  
>  There are ways around being the go-to person  
>  even for ourselves  
>  even when the answer is clear  
>  like the holy water Gentiles drank  
>  before they realized Forgiveness  
>  is the release of all hope for a better past.  
> 

Grantaire knew for a fact he was his own worst enemy.

Sure, there were the douchebags with bad attitudes and worse opinions of him who’d call him a variety of expletives: faggot, hipster, hobo, if he was particularly unlucky one day he might even get called nigger or wetback—he had one of those skin colors that could’ve been from anywhere. He knew he had a few too many acne scars, and getting his hair to behave was a lost cause. He knew he wasn’t tall with long slender legs (not like Enjolras).  
But those were nothing. Those were easy to let just slide off his back like some greased up seal, he never fretted over those. Sometimes his friends did; they’d call the offender out on his “ignorance” and his “privilege” and how he should “educate himself,” and maybe even follow it up with a bit of a bar brawl, if Bahorel was involved. When they’d walk home those evenings, or afternoons, or hell even mornings—it’s not like offensive pricks are picky about when they’re offensive—his friends would always reassure him that he was fine, _great_ even! He was talented and smart, and Enjolras would wax poetic about his potential as Grantaire continued to work his only-slightly-above minimum wage barista job and do art commissions online while he “figured out what he wanted to do with his life” (spoiler alert: it’s exactly that, tumblr and indie cafés—at least, for the foreseeable future).

But there was a reason he drank; one can’t come into a steady stream of alcoholism and a recreational drug or two without _“a reason.”_ Grantaire used to make up new ones at whim, back when his major associations were with strangers in a bar; one day he’d be a kidnap victim, the next he’d be a refugee from Albania, or maybe he had lost his money and his wife (on those days he wore flannel and passed as straight once in a blue moon) from gambling too much and too hard in some shitshow casino. The amicable drunks at the bar would nod their heads and it didn’t matter if they actually believed him or not. But once he came about a steady stream of consistent friends, his story had to get consistent too. So now he had an alcoholic father and a deaf little sister, and had only ever lived in run-down apartments where he’d receive abuse (he rotated just what kind so the story stayed somewhat fresh, like bananas in a bag) so his sister wouldn’t have to. And I mean, any sane man would be a drinker too in that case. Anyone from such a shit home life would indeed.  
The nice thing about severing ties with your family was they never were able to contradict you.

Grantaire grew up a suburban kid. Not nearly rich as Enjolras or Jehan, but he’d never known a working-class life, like Feuilly’s; or one rife with poverty and illicit means, of the kind Eponine and Gavroche had known. It was a mostly white, “liberal” place where everyone looked the same, talked the same, spewed the same bullshit about caring about the lower class until the tax collector came. He was the only non-WASP in too many of his classes and the only halfway “out” person in his whole high school. Sure, there were the occasional bullies, but his parents would do nothing but offer a quiet lack of understanding when he came home a little crestfallen—he was certainly no survivor of the abuse he claimed. More often, it had been the casual racism and homophobia that’d wormed its way through his daily life. The comments from the people who “got it,” and then still asked _“What is your opinion on affirmative action? I mean, you’re like on both sides of the issues right?”_ because he was the lightest skinned POC they knew. That planted the first seeds of cynicism in his poor not-so-delinquent brain. The pitying look from “white liberals,” from the completely ignorant yet “progressive” questions, _“Are you a tranny? Not that I’m judging..!”_ because he wore his sister’s Lisa Frank hoodie once running late for school. Those _people_ who wanted to change the world but keep their suburban neighborhoods white and well-off. That was why Grantaire was a cynic.

But it wasn’t why he drank. Grantaire drank because he knew he “shouldn’t”. Casual comments like those aren’t supposed to be enough to make you attempt suicide three times before graduating. A suburban white picket fence should not be the reason to want to impale your face through its spokes. Grantaire had fine grades, and could’ve had better if he hadn’t rotated drugs and lies every month in an attempt to feel something just shy of happiness. Grantaire had every reason to turn out just fine. But whenever he looked in the mirror, he only ever felt disgust.

 

***

He ties his bowtie for prom, going with some girl he knew because that’s the best the resident “gay kid” could do in his school: be someone’s consolation prize when her crush rejected her. (This was, of course, despite the fact he always insisted he was bi). He has two flasks on him that night, one for the punch bowl and one for him. He has a cocktail of pills in his pocket, and half a mind to bring a baggie of weed if the smell wouldn’t have lingered on his tuxedo for too long. He stares in the mirror, fingers fumbling with the cheap silk, not cheap because he can’t afford it but because he’d procrastinated on renting one in the first place. He has money. Not a whole lot, but enough. He has money and a family and a home and that’s more than a lot of people can say. He has friends and he has a car. He has a scholarship to art school. He has--He has acne scars. He has too many pounds on his body. He has skin that’s too dark to fit in with all the pretty white kids. He has the traces of self-inflicted wounds on his thighs. He is without a reason. Grantaire hates himself, hates himself like it’s second nature. As if feeling like a worthless lump was a baseline state of being, like it’s as normal and necessary as breathing. And that just makes him hate himself more.

His feet are unsteady. He feels a tremor run along his hands. His body is not stable. He can’t breathe. His bowtie is too tight. His cheap suit is too tight. He is a time bomb and he doesn’t deserve anything. He has anxiety like Hiroshima’s about to happen in his front lawn. He has blood on his suit cuff now. He has shattered. He has shattered the mirror. He has broken skin with the shard. Grantaire has. Grantaire has too much and too little reason for it and now he’ll have to pay for the whole suit, now that he’s ripped and stained the sleeves like that. He has the money to afford it. He shouldn’t have the money to afford it. He deserves no more than this bloody shard and the cold bathroom floor.

His sister finds him a minute later, pauses in the doorway before rushing to her brother’s side. He is crying, he is screaming; he is hyperventilating and not breathing; he is a bloodied mess and the cuts are bloody deep. She can’t hear the screaming, but she knows if their parents come home now nothing good will come of that situation, so she kneels by his side, and runs cool, thin fingers through his hair. She forms the “shh” sound with her lips and hopes it comes out right. Her voice is a rare occurrence and it manages to snap him out of the indiscriminate yelling, reduced only to pitiful whimpers as he averts his eyes from hers. He leans into her hands ever so slightly and she knows the worst part is over. Eugenie—that’s her name, and he always thought it was the prettiest name—pulls back for a moment to grab the first aid kit from the medicine cabinet and treats his cuts on the stained tile that stinks of copper now. She even dots his fingers where he gripped the glass with tiny Barbie bandaids.

He does not go to the hospital. They do not tell their parents.

They say he got sick and she sleeps next to him that night, signing on his naked shoulder that she loves him. That he is okay now.

He knows, he signs back to her. He knows.

But he shouldn’t be.

 

***

When he walks to get his diploma at graduation, he is high as Mount Everest and does not even remember it. The day is just a blur of faces and camera flashes. He wears the cheap suit pants from prom because they are the only pair he has. He pretends not to notice the small bloodstains around the waistband and avoids putting his hands in the pockets for any reason.

***

His sister gets her permit that summer, so she drives him around as much as possible to practice. It was one of Lewis Carroll’s golden afternoons, and he’s sketched the landscape a thousand times in a thousand different mediums. And yeah, that’s an exaggeration but he likes the way the phrase sounds in his head. They drive to get ice cream that afternoon, even though the parlour is only a ten minute walk from their house. They take care of the last few boring errands he has to do before going off to fancy university in Paris, because that’s where all the people in his high school seem to go.They stop on the tallest hill in their town, overlooking all the white picket fences and suburban households with white, smiling faces inside. He sketches her that day in pastels and for once she doesn’t put up a fuss.  
“Grantaire,” she starts signing once his hands stop moving furiously against the pad of paper, “Promise me you’ll relax when you get to college.”

He stares at her, not quite understanding. So she continued:

“Just… please stop hurting yourself so much. Hurting your body and your mind.”

She means well. She means the best. She means to move mountains for him and stop time for him and love him in ways he would never find it in him to love himself because she is his sister and she has picked him up from a suicidal trip two out of the three times he tried. And yet, with those words, she shows just how little she actually knows. How little anyone knows. And Grantaire has never felt so alone and so guilty up until that moment.  
He smiles, “Don’t worry. Once I get out of this town, nowhere to go but up. I’ll get my shit together, promise.”

 

***

His room looks clean for once—a neat stack of boxes in the middle of his floor. He leaves bright and early tomorrow morning, on the earliest train he could get out of this hellhole. His sister will drive him to the station in 4 hours. He knows he has everything, his mom double-checked with proud tears in her eyes he had to look away from. Grantaire deliberately doesn’t pack his razors, leaves his bong in one of the old boxes in the closet, the only pills on him are all prescriptions and in proper dosages. He can feel the headache pushing against the back of his eye sockets and he wonders if he’ll be able to get a pack of cigarettes from one of the convenience stores. He bitterly laughs at himself for becoming the poster child of teenage addiction. Maybe he will get clean in college after all.

***

  
The nice thing about severing ties with your family is, you never had to keep your promises.  
So Grantaire drinks till his lips go numb, and though that’s a clear sign he should stop, there’s only a shot or two (or maybe three?) left in the bottle so he might as well, don’t want to break a good streak and all. He found his “niche” in college, the group of friends who take him as he is, the people who don’t try to turn him into a stereotype or a cause. Well, all except one in the group. He found a disastrous love that brings out the worst and best of him all at once, like some cruel deity was fucking with his life even more. He guesses that can be his reason to drink: unrequited love. It’s tried and true and the boring stuff of sonnets and Taylor Swift songs, but somehow it’s become his life. He idly itches at the still-healing marks on his thighs, his feet propped up on the table next to two bloody razors, and wonders if happiness might look something like salvation offered by a glowing Greek god. He wouldn’t know, either way.


	2. Scraped the Soil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jehan was regularly described as “Not a Real Person,” or “NARP” for short. Which always amused him, because when he was little he used to wish he could live in fairy tale books and those big print fictions he read back when he was shorter than 60 cm. (He now stands at a whopping 155 cm, and he is very protective of those 5 cm) It all started with a plant—as most of the interesting anecdotes in his life seem to. Jehan had the misfortune of airborne allergies, so flowers and cats were both off-limits. Instead, he allowed himself the pleasure of greeneries. 
> 
> Jehan's intro chapter where he is basically an adorable French-Canadian not-lumberjack. Title taken from "Come Closer" by Anis Mojgani.  
> trigger warning for eating disorders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, I am drunk. I did not write this drunk but I did edit it and upload it thusly and as a result, grain of salt and all that. 
> 
> there's a lot more summary in this than previously but it is an intro chapter and all. Roomie beta'd this quickly so I might edit it more later.  
> I did my best on weight/height/metric system, but I fully acknowledge I should research better and all so, sorry. But that is something one does when shober...  
> Apologies for tenses in advance, still working out how I want them to work. There's some thematic element going on but I don't know what that is just yet.

> _come closer._  
>  know that whatever God prays to  
>  He asked it to help Him   
>  make something of worth.  
>  He woke from His dreams  
>  scraped the soil from the spaces  
>  inside Himself made you and was happy.  
>  you make the Lord happy.  
>  come into this.  
>  come closer. 

Jehan was regularly described as “Not a Real Person,” or “NARP” for short. Which always amused him, because when he was little he used to wish he could live in fairy tale books and those big print fictions he read back when he was shorter than 60 cm. (He now stands at a whopping 155 cm, and he is very protective of those 5 cm) It all started with a plant—as most of the interesting anecdotes in his life seem to. Jehan had the misfortune of airborne allergies, so flowers and cats were both off-limits. Instead, he allowed himself the pleasure of greeneries. 

When he first arrived at college, his family had to mail all his possessions from Canada in big boxes that took three trollies, a good Samaritan or two, his new roommate, and a whole pack of cigarettes to get across campus to his actual dorm. They were twisted and beaten up on the plane ride over and he had too much jetlag to deal with this. He sat on the horizontal cart, smoking the last of the pack he had only opened 5 hours prior. The chewed up nub already burning low as he stared at the last piece of luggage to be brought up to his sixth floor, elevator-less dorm room. How Amélie de l’Arbre (along with Foucault de la Fougére and the one thus far unnamed pot of hypoallergenic flowers) had managed the airfreight without getting crushed was a miracle in itself. The beauty was literally taller than Jehan, but he knew he would go insane without her. He would stick lines and snippets of poems-in-progress in her leaves, decorating her with his thoughts until they were ripe for poem-integration. He liked the metaphor. He did not like the fact she weighed nearly 32 kilos right now. Or the fact she was a meter and 3/4s tall. So he sat, smoking, glaring at her as if that would levitate her up the stairs so he could sleep for 10 hours or more. His roommate had gone out to dinner with friends from the area, the mail center was closing in 5 minutes, and the building seemed to be otherwise empty of potential help.

Until someone casually kicked the side of his cart and snapped him out of his botany-related brooding. 

“Need some help?” A stranger’s voice broke up his train of thought. 

Jehan looked up at him, the low-hanging sun silhouetting his dark curls like an evil forest and his eyes glowing something fierce against the dimming city background. He was dressed more coherently than Jehan (which was not very hard to do, if he is to be honest) but his clothes were non-descript, and Jehan had trouble guessing his background.  
“Are you offering? Because that would be pretty amazing, if so.”

Mr. Stranger laughed as he swung his messenger bag off. “Indeed I am,” he offered his hand to shake. “Name’s Grantaire.” 

It was the beginning of a beautiful, and destructive, friendship.

***

Jehan had never been in love. He thinks in another lifetime he could’ve loved Courfeyrac or Grantaire or, hell, even Cosette. As a small child, he would pour over fairy tale books and point out the pictures to his parents of all the cute kissing scenes at the end. He’d obsess over romantic comedies, taking notes and writing down the clichés while everyone else at the slumber party had been sleeping for hours and he would stay up on the sugar high and over-processed cheese products. He’d make all his valentines by hand, borrowing his father’s calligraphy pen and practicing his pick-up lines and tiny flirts, treating them like treasured secrets, instruments of great power. Girls thought a love-struck boy was even cuter than their parents’ miniature dogs, and invited him to all their elementary school parties, asked to dance with him in talent shows, indoctrinated him into the feminine mystique before he could even spell those words. Because a boy in love with love was bound to be the gayest of them all, according to their logic. And if he was gay and pretty and thin, he might as well be a girl—except it was even better because he wasn’t, right? (He pities the child with the internalized misogyny, really he does.)

His parents asked about it when he was allegedly budding into puberty according to the well-paid family doctor, _"Are you interested in any girls? Or just girls in general?"_ , and when he replied with a frowned, _"No,"_ they were convinced he was/would be/might as well be gay. As progressive parents, they wouldn't force him to say it out loud in case of embarrassement, but that conversation indeed started a slew of gendered-extra curricular involvements as his parents began banking on a musical theatre triple threat for a son. They didn’t get it. But he got an eating disorder, amidst ballet lessons and voice coaches and the puberty that never seemed to come. So yes, he is protective of those 5 cm because on a 500 kilocalorie diet during his primary bone-lengthening years, he fought for every centimeter he got. 

He can’t pinpoint the exact moment it started. Maybe with a few off-handed comments in ballet class, maybe with the judgmental eyes of a director during an audition, maybe when his vocal coach put her hand on his stomach and seemed to disapprove. Maybe it’s in response to a life he increasingly is losing control of as his parents tighten their reigns with color-coded calendars and reminder sticky notes. Maybe it was just how he happens to deal with stress in general. But through middle school, his meals start getting fewer and farther between as he perfects the art of shifting meat and peas around with a Westwood fork for the entirety of dinner. He’s calculated out just what proportion he can leave uneaten to avoid looks and how far back he has to put his finger down his throat to vomit most of it back up without making any heaving noises. He’s got it down to a science, a routine. He consistently leaves late enough in the morning that breakfast becomes only a piece of toast and cup of yogurt. He can’t stop by the bathroom immediately after lunch, but there’s one by the 2nd floor music rooms that’s always unoccupied between 5th and 6th period. He’ll eat two handfuls of granola before a dance class or singing class or acting class or rehearsal for the play or rehearsal for the musical. After dinner, he has to wait thirty-five minutes for his parents to become caught up enough in their work they don’t notice him sneak off to the bathroom in the furthest wing of the house he otherwise doesn’t frequent. 

Whenever his doctor checks his height and weight, Jehan stands with his back to the scale so he doesn’t have to hear the bad news. Any news is bad news; any weight will never be low enough. He water fasts the entire week before hand and then goes for long runs through the mansion’s grounds to sweat it all off. That’s where he discovers his love for nature, amidst the tall trees and pinpricks of sunlight that reach the leaf-covered earth. He writes sonnets to the trees and haikus to the grass and there are villanelles dedicated to the wildflowers and weeds the morning before they cut the grass again. On weekends, he gets up extra early to lie in the overthrown open space and pretend he is in a meadow in Alberta hundreds of miles away from his home in Ontario. Sometimes he feels thin enough that he might be able to float away peacefully. 

The doctor quietly scolds him with two disapproving sentences that afternoon, but does not bring the matter up with his family. He appreciates their money too much to tell them the bad news. 

He is 144 cm, 37 kilos, with thin hair and the stench of sick all but buried under his skin. He is no longer the thin, pretty, obviously gay kid. He is barely a wallflower, more like a ghost who hovers weightlessly from class to class, everyone seeing right through him. He stares at his reflection one night with the lights dimmed down because he’s supposed to be in bed—big day tomorrow with a ballet audition. He has cried and puked and there was some blood mixed in with sick in the toilet bowl so he cried some more. He wants to take a penknife to try to carve the smell out of him, prove that he is flesh and bone and there is still matter to him, but instead he grabs a normal pen, and begins writing on his arms. His legs. His stomach. He uses the mirror to form the words on his chest where he wants to carve out his heart. Instead of harming himself he puts it down in words and drafts himself tattoos in cheap Bic pen. His classmates don’t see him yet, but they notice the black scrawls, as if he is Orwell’s Invisible Man with bandages holding his visible form together. 

They ask about his poems with baited breath, amazed at the intricacy and delicacy of his handwriting. They want to see more and he feels self-conscious raising his shirtsleeve. They take his arms so gently, as if he is a glass flower and even he is surprised by how much he hates it. The first few times he flinches away and turns his arm for them. They offer him a questioning look, a “ _What’s wrong with you?”_ look, a _“Poor Jean”_ look, and he hates them for it. Eventually, he only screams internally when they take him by the wrist and twist his forearm this way and that, pulling up his sleeve as they read the lines out loud, deciding that his body is a public billboard for his public writing and he somehow owns both of them a little less now. 

By sophomore year of high school, he looks every bit the petite girl they always thought he’d turn out. He has grown his hair out to mask its thinness, how it falls out when he brushes it. He is thin with high cheekbones. He is short and told he will never be a ballerina. It was one of the happiest days of his life when he parents had frowned and asked " _What the hell had all those lessons been for then?"_ _“You,”_ he had said just under his breath when they turned away. He is scrawling on his arm again in Math, flowers and phrases and calligraphic “J”s. He draws himself a meadow and it’s a poor rendition, but he likes the tree on it.  
“Are you thinking of getting those done permanently?” 

He looks up, and it’s a boy from his class who’s been in his orbit for years but they’ve never talked before. Probably just as bored as he is. Probably doesn’t mean anything special by the small talk.

“Not really,” Jehan blushes but the reply is terse as he pulls his sweater sleeve down over his penwork. He’s not a fan of talking about anything on his body, too many opportunities for someone to slip in a comment about his weight which never ends well. 

“Oh, well,” he smiles shyly, intimidated by a blushing boy half his size and smaller than most of the girls in the class, “you keep drawing kind of the same things all the time, so I thought that meant you were gonna get them tattooed or something. That’s cool though,” he says as he turns back awkwardly and slightly disappointed.

Jehan wonders if he was trying to flirt. He wonders if he should say something back, get his attention again. That’s how it works in the rom coms, that’s the formula he’s written down a hundred times in his notes. He opens his mouth dumbly for a few moments, before he realizes he has nothing to say. This is the perfect opportunity for a gay kid his age, some cute boy paying him attention, going out of his way to say something, to make that comment. But he realizes, studying formulas for love, noticing all the patterns, fulfilling obligations set forth by the precedent of heterosexual dualism and fairy tales and religion and all that bullshit that finds its way into the movies, is just that: an obligation. And he loves love, the feelings it invokes, the input/output system relationships seem to work by (input: flowers, output: appreciation and affection), but he has no more interest in this boy or anyone else he has met in all his years than he has with the mailman. Friends? Sure. But being romantic for any reason other than “that’s what people do in a relationship”? Jehan isn’t so sure. He doesn’t open his mouth again until right between 5th and 6th period in the toilet stall closest to the door where his finger goes down his throat. 

The breaking point is when he is 16, 147 cm, 35 kilos, and uses a fake ID to finally get the tattoos. His body has neither the fat nor the muscle to protect his nerve endings and it’s supposed to be a simple shoulder tattoo but he cries after the first 10 seconds. 2 minutes into it, he passes out from the pain.

His parents are called. After some sharp words with the tattoo parlour manager, they decide not to sue but he is taken to the hospital to double-check he won’t get an infection from it. He has a silent panic attack in the backseat the whole car ride there and when the nurses admit him and take his weight, they want to follow up with a psych evaluation.

He is lying on his side when the doctor comes in.

“Jean—,”

“Jehan,” He corrects poignantly, his back not facing the psychiatrist.

“We just want to ask a couple more questions.”

He turns over with a sigh but does not make eye contact.

“So you know this isn’t just about the tattoo, right?”

He is already tearing up, and he nods silently so he doesn’t let out a sob. It is the worst conversation he can ever remember and he knows exactly what is coming at the end of it. He receives the official diagnosis and is hospitalized for seven months. He spends junior year with “Get Well Soon” bears and bright flowers and balloons and chocolates and thoughtful cards that soon wane to just a phone call from his parents every week or so.  
When he is discharged, he is 150 cm and 50 kilos. His parents try to explain away his stint in the hospital to the school administration, but he enters junior year like any other student who had been on medical leave. The Math class boy is no longer in his orbit. Asking him out is not worth the effort anymore. Jehan is no longer thin and girlish, he is a short boy with short hair that is still thin and now is fluffy with cowlicks he won’t ever be able to control. His freckles dot shoulders that should be on a gymnast,not a petite ballerina, and he spends his afternoons outside in as little clothing as the weather will ever allow instead of the countless extracurriculars his parents had forced upon him before. 

_“Are you sure you don’t want to do anything? Not even voice lessons? You have such a pretty voice.”_

His voice is not pretty. It may sound shy but make no mistake, it is the voice of a man and he will sit out in the sun he has been denied for too long and he will go for runs when he wants to and he will write all the poems he wants as well. He is not a sensitive flower and if he wants to climb trees and hang pages of swirly scrawl on their branches, then fuck it. He builds his upper body that summer climbing the tall pines. He builds his legs by running across the fields and through the woods behind his parents’ ostentatious house. 

When he graduates, he is 155 cm, 59 kilos, and has strong, lean muscles he never could’ve built before. The doctor says he may grow more or may not. He has already become accustomed to being the short person in any group and he does not mind. His hair is still short and constantly looks tousled. He is still learning “social skills,” stuff he missed out on when he avoided people like the plague and shying away from every touch for fear of their cruel words about his body. He is in love with love and will write her sonnets, smile and inquire when he hears of others’ exploits, wax poetical about the feelings it incurs, how it brings out the best in people. He is okay with just that. He is usually pretty okay with himself.

***

They got the tree up all those damn stairs finally, over puffed breaths and sweated brows. They had set it down in the middle of his dorm room’sfloor for now, and Jehan smiled at Grantaire from around the side of Amelie’s silhouette.

“Do you live in this building?”

Grantaire laughed, and waited to catch his breath before responding. “I’m in the one right next to it, actually.” 

“Well,” and he averted his eyes, “Were you on your way to get dinner?” Unsure if it sounded like a date. 

“I was,” Grantaire started, also unsure if it was a date, “Why?”

“I don’t know anyone in all of France, so getting dinner with someone sounds nice.” 

Grantaire has always been a man with little to lose, “Why not? Come on, I got in yesterday so I know a few places nearby, from exploring a bit.” 

It was not a date, but it ended up being the first time they stepped into the Musain, all hardwood and warm lights and good coffee and future memories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay now that you've read it theoretically ima say what I wanna say.  
> in the fandom, Jehan is essentialized based on his canonical traits of having A (and only "a") pot of flowers, liking poetry, and doing a lot of day dreaming, as this not-quite-a-girl-but-extremely-feminine-and-pretty-passing person. It'd be one thing if this was just one or two representations but it's essentially been adopted as canon, which is problematic because poetry/day dreaming/having a single potted plant does not equal femininity and does not equal femme-style, and what's worse, he is exalted by a lot for these non-canon characteristics in a fetishization of queer people. I'm writing this drunk so that explanation is probably not as coherent as I want (my left hand is numb..) but like. The fact that EVERYONE does it is a problem because instead of exploring this idea, it instead perpetuates a lot of problematic stuff and tries to pretend it's progressive. So. So I went out of my way to make sure even if he had a feminine style, he would not instantly pass as a girl or "pretty," based on Western beauty standards. He'd look like a masculine man in feminine clothing and that's all, in this AU.  
> Semi-not-really-lumberjack Jehan. Lumberjack isn't even a good description but stocky, built Jehan from Canada who actually has chest hair.  
> Um his hair is swoopy with a cowlick in the part and it's a strawberry blonde.  
> I think that's the important shit, I'll include a better description of how "dresses poorly" is interpreted in this AU in subsequent chapters. 
> 
> Um.. I'll probably edit this description/notes or the whole thing later once sober. Pour l'instant, c'est la.


	3. The Handsome Phalangesist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eponine is introduced, a wild Courfeyrac appears, Jehan explains his love of love a tiny bit, and Grantaire needs to live through Jehan vicariously if he's going to deal with a semester of celibacy. (now with actual physical descriptions? we just got fancy.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title and intro poem shamelessly taken from Sam Sax

> _The child’s wicked fingers tore at the bird’s nest_  
>  until it was little more than straw and garbage  
>  the ground an aftermath of the most natural disaster  
>  each hand a raging power line hiding in pants pockets.  
>  this is the simplest form of deconstruction  
>  the desire to break...things...down.

Grantaire knew for a fact, the first chance he got, he was putting a job application in for the university café. By signing up for an art major, he had essentially taken a vow of poverty, and while his family had set up a bank account for him with enough money to pay for supplies his whole first year at least, the last thing he wanted was to be financially dependent on “the suburbs,” as it were. Grantaire had come into the café the first day it opened that semester and finished the application right on the spot. He even came in multiple times the next few weeks just to check in on it, till finally in early October, they gave him the official offer. Grantaire took on as many hours as possible and yet only worked the baseline effort to keep the job because, after all, he was still Grantaire. 

Jehan and he had officially become best friends—Grantaire was amicable with most people but didn’t care to let them in on his not-so-tragic past whereas Jehan was a sweetheart but shy enough he accidentally came off as cold. But together, they talked about poetry and their favorite authors, they’d switch languages for shits and giggles mid-sentence once, if it was a slow day, Grantaire would always ask Jehan to write him a poem or two on his arm—he never wrote his own, but would give him Keats, Baudelaire, and on the good days maybe even Dante and Aeschylus in their original languages—and Grantaire would reciprocate by drawing him tall trees and peaceful fields in his notebook and on his hands. A couple customers had asked if they were boyfriends before, wherein Grantaire laughed and Jehan blushed and the option was never dutifully considered and it suited them just fine. 

About a month after Grantaire’s working there, Eponine shows up. She arguably makes better drinks than Grantaire (only arguable because his Americanos reign supreme) and knows just the right way to tease him about it. She looks like his sister so Grantaire’s immediately fond of her. She’s got the same dark hair that comes down in waves though she keeps it longer than Eugenie. Her Iranian skin is lighter too, but not by a whole lot. But in the eyes—fuck—in her eyes especially, he’s not sure he could tell them apart. He’s oddly okay with this and feels more at home coming into her acquaintance than he has since he first stepped foot on campus. Their friendship doesn’t start out bombastic; after seeing each other only in staff meetings, they take the slow mid-afternoon shift together one day and are all but forced to talk to each other. “Talking” became “Making snide remarks at the posh hipsters who came in” very quickly and who doesn’t bond over snark? 

Three girls come in, all in knee-high boots, dark tights and skirts, and some too-thin scarves strewn around their necks. The best part? They all have their iphones out, not even keeping up conversation with one another despite their friend group looking like three near-identical triplets. The only different in their drinks are syrup flavors, and Grantaire and Eponine exchange the same looks at the exact same time after the group has paid. That’s the moment Grantaire realized he was all but in love with Eponine; they were on the same page in the best way possible. Eponine is a breath of fresh air in every mundane shift. 

One day when they’re closing up together, giggling over the ridiculousness of the touchy-feely couple that lingered for too damn long, Grantaire pops the question.

“So me and the poet I always hang over with, Jehan, we’re going out for some fun tonight,” he starts.

She raises an eyebrow but keeps wiping down the counter, “What kind of fun are you talking about?”

He smiles as he keeps sweeping, using a loud voice so it carries across the café, “The kind of fun that takes a bottle of gin and vodka.” 

“Well in that case, are you gonna hurry up and invite me already? If you don’t, you know I’ll just show up anyways now.”

Yep, Grantaire is almost in love with her.

And so Grantaire becomes the unlikely glue their holds their little trio dynamic together, where they all get hammered weekend nights and spend days in mutual agonizing hangover. Where they look out for each other in bars, pass out on various couches all curled up together, and even manage to enjoy each other's company relatively sober too.

It all gets complicated one day when the café is quiet enough and Jehan is hunched over the counter on a tall stool as he is wont to, multitasking homework with writing poems. He’s all but curled on top of his poem notebook whenever it’s open, pressing his thick glasses (he calls them his “poetry glasses” because he usually writes in some tiny, cramped script that he usually needs them to read his own writing) further on his nose. He keeps mussing with his hair when he’s stumped for another line so it’s flopping around in the worst way possible. His jean—fucking—jacket is strewn on the other stool, too big for him with studs and patches and even duck tape here and there. He’s actually wearing flannel on flannel and Grantaire almost had an aneurism from the clashing plaids. It’s not even a sweater—Jehan literally put on two button up flannel shirts and thought he looked good before he left his dorm that day. His ripped up jeans rolled up to his calf to show off the combat boots. He would be wearing uggs if Grantaire hadn’t literally burned them one evening. His crocs have also mysteriously disappeared (again he suspects Grantaire). 

Jehan is rockin’ 90’s grunge like it never went out of style (except it did. And it good for a reason, Grantaire likes to remind him) obviously engrossed in the poem that just doesn’t want to work with him. Eponine’s in class and Grantaire’s making himself a latte during the quiet hours of his shift when the guy walks in.

“The guy” is unassuming, with thick curls and a boyish smile. Grantaire knows for a fact he’s in one of his history seminar classes that go late into the evening. He also knows for a fact he literally missed every class in the month of September. He’s not sure if this is awkward. “The guy” doesn’t let it be though,

“Hey! You’re in my Englightenment class, right?” He smiles even with his eyes, like it’s kindergarten and they can be best friends right away—like it’s not awkward at all that it’s mid-November and they have not said two words to each other previously despite being in the same small class. 

Grantaire does his signature half-smile, “Yep. Sorry, totally blanking on your name though.” 

“The guy” laughs, and fuck he has dimples, “It’s okay. I’m Courfeyrac, and you’re… Grantaire, right?” He says slow and unsure. 

“I am impressed, Courfeyrac. And now doubly embarrassed that I didn’t remember your name.” 

“It’s alright. Unlike you, I have yet to correct the professor,”—that was a onetime thing when he misquoted Talleyrand, Grantaire’s honor would be in shambles if he didn’t correct a simple misquote—“ and I wouldn’t forget those eyes anywhere.” 

_Fuck._

Fuckity fuck fuck fuckshit.

Fucking fuckity shit fuck damn fuck.

Grantaire knew he was no prize in a lot of ways. His bone structure was not comparable to a marble stature, he had acne scars dotting his dark skin, and freckles that looked more like dirt splatter, and always kept some stubble to hide the shaving scars he’d accumulated from his younger days learning how to use a razor while absolutely shit-faced. And that wasn’t even mentioning his shorter stature and his pudge in places he hated. Grantaire was well-aware of the short-comings present in his body.

But his fucking eyes—he had always and would always be self-conscious of the heterochromia everyone liked to point out like it was a fucking party trick or something.  
Jehan knew of this. At one of the bars they hit up, someone thought it was cute to point out his green and brown mismatched eyes, and Grantaire was an emotional drunk that evening who later sobbed about it on the walk home. He immediately perked up as he noticed Grantaire stiffen out of the corner of his eyes. He pushed his glasses back till they were on his head, glaring something murderous at whoever thought they were being cute. 

He just didn’t expect that “whoever” to actually be cute. 

Courfeyrac didn’t notice Grantaire’s change in air, but he did notice the new pair of eyes on him. He looked over at Jehan, and couldn’t help but smile dimples and all. 

So of course Jehan blushed and turned to his notebook which was now extremely fascinating. 

Which just made Courfeyrac bashful in return.

Grantaire was less offended by the comment and now more surprised because he was watching a real-life romantic comedy slowly unfold before him. 

And Jehan was wearing _plaid on fucking plaid and jeans with holes for knees._  
Jehan better fucking thank him for this. 

“Ah, Courfeyrac, this is my friend Jehan. He’s a history and lit major but he’s more into medieval and classical history than modern European.” 

Courfeyrac is beaming at that, “I’m doing just history, but I’ve taken some classes in medieval and classics.” 

Jehan’s tongue has stopped working, and he’s still not making eye contact, but when he opens his mouth to speak only to shut it and repeats this process two more times, Grantaire steps in to save his soul: “You’ve taken some classes before? What year are you?”

“This is my third,” he says bashfully—though not nearly to Jehan’s level yet.

“Whoa, don’t take this the wrong way but you do not look like a third year.”

“Ha ha ha,” sarcasm dripping off his tongue like honey as his eyes trace over Jehan as if to gauge his reaction to the information. He turns back to Grantaire, “I get that a lot actually. Someone even asked if I was a third year in high school.”

Jehan snorted quietly, “You do not look that young.” Because sass is his defense mechanism when he is embarrassed, which happens to be almost all the time.

Grantaire has to stop himself from screaming out loud—can that boy not take a goddamn hint? Grantaire needs to live vicariously through him; it is November, and if this is going to be a semester of celibacy for him it sure as shit is not going to be one for his best friend if he can help it. 

Thank Jesus’ dick Courfeyrac laughs it off, “Now that I don’t get all the time.” 

Jehan risks a glance, the brief eye contact reigniting his blush like a firestorm traveling down to his neck where flannel shirt #1 comes up before his eyes flick down like a lighter, “What kind of history do you study then?” he says in one breath, like smoke. 

“Revolutions, mostly,” he still smiles but it’s quieter now, mirroring Jehan a bit, “I’m thinking of doing my thesis on comparing countries in 1848, probably France, Germany, and Poland, but my adviser will probably tell me that’s too broad.”

“If--,” Jehan can paperclip and spit slam poetry with the best of them when he wants to, why is this so damn hard? “If I was doing a thesis any time soon, I’d probably do the Romantics and their historical references. So, it’s around the same time period and all. Basically.”

Courfeyrac is beaming again, “Do you mind if I join you? I would love a good history geek out if you’d oblige.”

Jehan grips his pencil as they make fleeting eye contact again, “Sure.” 

Grantaire forgives his third wheel status when Courfeyrac finally orders some damn coffee and leaves a sizable tip.

* * * 

They spend the rest of Grantaire’s shift talking history, Jehan with a literature focus, Courfeyrac offering a more politics edge, and Grantaire chiming in every now and then in various languages just to remind Courfeyrac to stay on his toes with Jehan. As Jehan and Courf cycle through Medieval to Classics to Renaissance to Romantics to Enlightenment, so too do Jehan and Grantaire cycle through tiny side conversations of Italian, Latin, and Greek.

“Yes but Aeschylus didn’t have the raw emotional power in his works Euripedes did,” Courfeyrac gestures over his Americano.

“Yes, but Prometheus Bound. Enough said,” Jehan stops himself from sounding too dismissive.

“That can’t even be fully attributed to him.”

“Fine, but his Oresteia trumps Euripedes’ Orestes; that play was a sad excuse for a sequel. The worst sequel in history, I would wager, second only to that Phantom of the Opera mess,” he says as he sips his mango vanilla soy latte, which Grantaire has long stopped questioning his syrup flavor choices.

 _“You know Andrew Lloyd Webber must’ve been extremely drunk when he thought that was a good idea,”_ Grantaire mutters in Greek as he washes out some mugs.

 _“I was thinking LSD, but that works too,”_ Jehan responds, not thinking fully and saying it in Hebrew which Grantaire is entirely unfamiliar with.

Courfeyrac, however, chokes on his Americano quite loudly.

Chokes and spills it on his pants and apparently has a heart attack all at once. He springs up, cursing loudly as he grabs some napkins for his crotch.

Jehan blushes but he doesn’t know why—maybe because all eyes including his are on Courfeyrac’s groin as the man is trying to avoid any burns on his genitals. Grantaire’s just confused, but then again he usually is. 

When Courf has saved the contents of his trunks from permanent damage, he takes his seat again. He sits straight blinks a few times, then looks at Jehan confused and curious and most of all, disbelieving.

 _“You speak Hebrew?”_ he asks likewise in Hebrew.

The blush is back but it’s like a small flicker than a conflagration, _“Yeah. I wanted to read Isaiah’s work, so I taught myself what I could, but I don’t really practice speaking so my pronunciation’s probably terrible.”_

_“It is but that’s,” Courfeyrac is without words for a moment so he just gestures wildly, “That’s fine and amazing and wonderful and perfect and you are all of those things to.”_

Okay now Jehan blushes in kind. 

“No, I’m not,” he says slumping in on himself, fingers picking at the edges of his closed notebook.

“I disagree,” he half-laughs the words out, “I disagree so much I couldn’t explain it properly even if I had the rest of the day.”

As if on cue, an alarm on his phone goes off and he rolls his eyes dramatically, like a petulant child who doesn’t want to come in from recess. 

“I am so sorry,” He apologizes running a hand through his wild curls, “Please, please, let me give you my number. We really—I would really love to see you again. I would really love that,” he says with surprising sincerity. 

Jehan just nods, eyes widened and blush reaching all down his neck. 

Courf grabs a pen form his coat pocket and scrawls the digits quickly on Jehan’s coffee cup before packing his things up quickly and saying his goodbyes, “Nice seeing you Grantaire and being properly introduced,” he says pulling on his duffle coat. “And Jehan,” he takes the poet’s hand and kisses the back of his knuckles, lips a feather-touch on the tree roots and lettering scrawled on Jehan’s skin with cheapass Bic, “it was an absolute delight meeting you and I really do hope you call me.” 

And with that, he’s a whirlwind out the door. 

The silence lasts for about 2 minutes before Grantaire just breaks into a laugh and Jehan covers his hands with his face.

“I can’t believe—“

“Grantaire, don’t—“

“He is a cheeky bastard—“

“Seriously, can you just—“

“You had better fucking call—“ 

“Grantaire,” he says firmly.

Grantaire stops and looks over at him, really looks, and he can see the conflict in his friend’s face. 

“What? Jehan, why aren’t you saving his number into your phone right this second? You two really seemed to hit it off.”

He lets out a long sigh and crosses his arms on the countertop, lying his head down in the makeshift pillow, “I don’t do ‘people’ well.”

“You seem to ‘do’ him just fine, and it would probably be a good idea to also DO him while you’re at it.”

“Like,” Jehan is really struggling with his words today, “Like relationships. And romantic things. And—“

“Hold up, you’re seriously telling me you’re not good at romance? Jehan, all you do is write love poems. Literally. Every poem you have shown me has been about love in some capacity.” 

Jehan sighs again like a deflated balloon, “Yeah, but that’s different.”

“Different how?”

“Different as in not about a real person. Real people are hard. Real people are,” he trails off again.

“Are what? They’re not that confusing, Courfeyrac simply wants you to call him so he can ask you out. That’s all there is right now. It’s simple, Jehan.”

“But I don’t think I like him like that,” he says so quietly Grantaire barely catches it.

“Why the fuck not?” He asks confused and curious.

“Grantaire, see? It’s not so simple. He’s sweet and funny and interesting and smart, but it’s not like I want to kiss him or anything. I want to talk about medieval legal law with him, not about how big his dick is.”

“Then why were you blushing so much?”

“Because he smiled like that and was flirting and all. It kind of put me on the spot, when a cute guy looks at me like that.”

Grantaire tosses the rag in his hand aside, the café about to close so he figures it’s okay if he walks around the bar and plops down in the stool that once was occupied by Courfeyrac’s ass of God. 

“So you think he’s cute, but you don’t want to get it on with him.”

Jehan looks up at him and nods weakly. 

“You think he’s cute but you don’t even want to hold is hand or anything?”

At that, he shakes his head slowly. 

Grantaire hums in consideration, “I still think you should call him. Call him, hang out with him, you don’t have to agree to a _date_ date, but give him another chance, see if anything happens. That is my advice as someone who has had a total of zero significant others for past experience.” 

“And if he tries to kiss me or something?”

“If you don’t want him to do something, don’t let him do it. Tell him no. Simple,” He shrugs.

Jehan nods slowly again before sitting up, “I’m a poet, I thought I’m supposed to be the one good with talking about feelings.”

Grantaire smiles then heads back behind the coffee bar to finish final shut down, “Artists are great with feelings, though we usually paint them or drink them numb. But when I’m sober, I could be a goddamn life coach.”

Jehan sincerely doubts it, but smiles anyways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Jehan can paperclip" --> Paperclipping is basically saying nonsense poetically so it sounds convincing and deep. Like, Supa Hot Fire "Glasses, jacket, shirt." 
> 
> I am builllddiiiingggg to the actual shipping soon. Slowly. I am impatient and I theoretically have free time the next few days so I'm going to write a lot more theoretically. I really didn't want "dresses poorly" to mean "dresses feminine" with Jehan. That was my biggest no-no, and I think almost everyone hated the grunge of the 90's and Canada's like 20 years behind the US in fashion anyways right? (OBVIOUSLY YES.) so mission accomplished I'd like to think. Courf comes from a conservative Jewish family with some relatives in Israel ~*~if you were wondering~*~ I am trying really hard to be respectful writing this, but call me out if I push things too far--not just on Judaism, on everything.  
> Enjolras is FINALLY getting introduced in the next chapter and I am actually excited for it as a motherfucker because sundresses. Motherfucking sundresses.


	4. Grandfather Guns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The 3 not-quite-musketeer convene in Le Musain about JUSTICE, until Courfeyrac turns it into a Means Girls gossip session as he is wont to do. Introduction of Enjolras and Combeferre.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This why Courf's phone bzzt'd in the last chapter, because he was late and they wanted to make sure he was still alive.  
> Sorry this one isn't that long but not every chapter can be a Dostoyevsky book.

 

>   
> _Some men own their masculinity like a beaten dog._  
>  Some wear it like a suit of grandfather handguns  
>  cocked at a pendulum in the gut.  
>  Some of us keep driving it into concrete highway dividers  
>  in order to compare the size of our explosions.

Enjolras and Combeferre half-expected Courfeyrac to be late—the running joke is that if he isn’t there 5 minutes after the scheduled time, he’ll be at least 30 minutes late instead. But it’s almost an hour after they started when he does finally burst in to the café. They’re sitting at a large enough table, laptops out and stacks of papers, books, and newspapers littering the space. Courf dramatically huffs as he sits in the vacant seat, “I met an angel today.”

“Your excuses are getting more creative,” Ferre smile into his London Fog, bright computer screen reflected in his thin-frame glasses.

“It’s the truth though! Or at least, it’s not an excuse,” Courf whines as he tugs his jacket off and adjusts his sweater.

“That wasn’t the most convincing, you know.”

“I met—“ He frowns noticing neither are paying him the attention he so rightfully deserves.

“Hey!” Enjolras frowns as Courf swats the newspaper out of his hand and shuts ‘Ferre’s laptop.

“This is actually important and plays a large impact on my future, and you all better be listening for this momentous occasion in my life,” He says as serious as a heart attack.

He doesn’t wait for a response as he continues now that all eyes are on him, “I met an amazing boy today. And he is so amazing, and sweet, and funny, and he writes poems, and he’s really smart, and—this is the kicker, this is what seals the deal, how I know soulmates do exist and I have met mine—“ he leans in like he’s about to share the Krabby Patty secret formula, _“He speaks Hebrew.”_ Courf puts his hands up like he just dropped the mic like Kanye.

It is a good thing Combeferre is infinitely more patient than Enjolras.

“I’m happy for you, but—“

“Are you shitting me?” Enjolras needs to get the stick out of his ass.

“Enjolras,” Ferre sighs, ready to placate as necessary.

“You came late, Courfeyrac. Don’t turn serious meetings into your Mean Girls gossip fantasies when we’re actually working,” with that he huffs and stands, leaving to get more espresso to feed the caffeine addiction.  
Ferre and Courf both watch him go, his black skirt swishing with sass, his shoes soundless flats worn with lacey tights. Enjolras’ hair in a messy bun that he keeps trying to salvage but a significant bit of hair has escaped, blonde curls against the fuzzy knit of his slouchy red sweater. He’s got ink stains on his hands from leaky pens as he hands money to the cashier. His eyes tired behind thick-rimmed reading glasses as he doesn’t focus them on her face, and she’s not sure if she should actually be interested in him (he is fucking hot) or judgmental (hot in a girlish way that used to get him beat up on playgrounds and cat-called on sidewalks) so she settles for bland politeness that makes her even more forgettable in Enjolras’ eyes. He’s used to the awkwardness though. He passes maybe 40% of the time depending, but he often gives people pause as they search for his gender in his angular hips and high cheekbones. Usually, it’s his height that people decide is the determining factor—he’s pushing 6’0”, hence why he exclusively wears flats.

Fuck ‘em. Enjolras ain’t got no shits to give. He’d promised himself in college, he’d wear whatever he wanted, and if some days that included a fucking wedding dress, he would rock it. In his younger days, he’d come out as transgender to his parents and dealt with the resulting fall out freshman year where they disowned him. Now, he likes to tell himself he’s moved beyond labels, but does consider himself cisgender. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with a cisdude rockin’ ballet flats and tights. He’s okay with his body, he’s okay with the pronouns; it’s the machismo and misogyny he can’t stand, and he likes to be vocal about just how much he can’t stand it. He has perfected the art of the social justice rant to a science at this point, and his friends all know the topics to stay away from unless they want to trigger an impromptu lecture.

The barista hands him his black coffee with two shots of espresso and he doesn’t give it any time to cool, downs it black like the souls of his enemies, he sometimes jokes, as he walks back to the table.

In the time it’s taken him, Courf has gotten most of is Jehan-related ranting out of his system as Ferre dutifully nods along like the good friend he is.

“If you like him so much, invite him to the meeting next week,” Enjolras says as he sits down.

“Why? We talked about like, ancient Greek tragedies not social justice things,” Courf frowns, “I don’t want you to scare him off with your righteous speeches.”

“If Enjolras, your best friend, can scare him off, then maybe he might not be your actual soul mate?” Ferre asks, slowly and sensitively. It's a valid argument, and they'd vowed bros before potential-soulmates a long time ago, but he still doesn't want to cause a row.

Courfeyrac frowns more at sound logic, “You two are just trying to recruit him.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

He shrugs with an easy smile, leaning back in the chair nonchalant, “Nothing at all. Just sounds like something the ISO would do.”

“Do you want me to scald you right now? I’ll seriously do it,” thankfully everyone was used to Enjolras’ itchy trigger finger with violent threats.

“Well you are socialist, I don’t see what’s wrong with the ISO—“

 _“Libertarian socialist_ , goddamnit Courfeyrac. _Red and fucking black.”_

“It’s oxymoronic.”

Enjolras sets his jaw and gets that “Let Me Tell You Why You Should Feel Bad For Being So Wrong Even Though I Support Your Freedom To Have Shit Opinions Because I Have The Moral High Ground” look in his eyes, and Combeferre thinks it’s time to put this to an end.

“Courfeyrac, Enjolras has had a long day and he’s got a hard weekend ahead. Try not to make him self-destruct just yet.”

Combeferre is well-versed in making sure his friends don’t kill each other. They’d met all the way back in elementary school when they literally all wore the same pair of sneakers to the first day of school, and had been inseparable ever since. When Enjolras’ family cut him off, there was a major scare whether or not he’d be able to pay for college but Combeferre’s parents had agreed to foot the bill, and he’s all but been adopted at this point. While he doesn’t cross-dress (nearly so obviously at least)around them, Ferre’s parents are infinitely less controlling and Ferre appreciates, besides not so subtle hints that being a doctor is the ideal choice, they haven’t really forced him into anything. In India, his family is historically Brahmins from the North of the country but while they moved to France not recently, they made sure to pass as many traditions down as feasible. So Ferre speaks Hindi at home, and he and Enjolras bond over their similar dietary restrictions. He grew up with an odd privilege he can’t quite place, but he’s thankful his friends have never tokenized him.

Courf sighs, “Alright, fine. _If_ he calls, I will invite him on the condition that you don’t actively try to freak him out, and then I’ll take him out for drinks after the meeting. Be aware he is really shy though so like,” He fidgets, “So don’t put him on the spot too much.”

“He’s shy and yet he’s potentially going on a date with _you_?” Enjolras asks, eyes flicking over the top his glasses like a terse librarian.

“It’s like,” Courf makes a gestures that looks like a couple scissoring despite best intentions, “It’s like we just fit.”

“Fit like two lesbians having sex?” He’s confused where this is going.

“No! Well yes? What I mean is, sort of but like—like we balance each other out. Is what I mean.”

Enjolras lets out a fond sigh and sets his glasses aside, taking his sad excuse for a bun out as he takes pity on Courfeyrac’s lack of coherency, “Alright. Anyone who can balance you out deserves a goddamn medal just for existing, so we would both love to meet him.”

“Really you’re too kind,” Courf rolls his eyes but his smile shows his true feelings.

The end of discussion leads to a touch of silence that Combeferre decides to break obligingly.

“I second Enjolras’ statement, but we were actually doing meeting work so,” he tilts his head, “this coalition isn’t going to build itself and we all have papers due on Monday.”

Courf laughs, “Alright, just let me get properly caffeinated and I’ll gladly help after.”

They spend the next two hours in Le Musain Café, handwriting getting progressively illegible, papers progressively scattered, and hair progressively tousled in frustration before finally calling it a night when the bland cashier sweeps up by their table for three minutes straight. They’re so regular, no one ever asks them to leave point blank except the wayward new employee, but the hour is late and they’re quite inefficient at this point with their work, so rest is the best. They resolve to meet tomorrow afternoon for a working lunch, and it’s there Courfeyrac finally receives the text. He almost has a heart attack.  
 _  
Hey! It’s Jehan. How are you doing?_

Okay, not the most climactic but Courf’s hyped it up so much in his mind, fuck it. His entire week has been made in the shade with lemonade now, and he’s going to break his dimples if he smiles any harder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So uh Libertarian Socialism is actually a thing, though it does sound oxymoronic at first glance. I'm currently knee deep in a very interesting book about it, and the subtitle is "Politics in Red and Black," and fuck me I just couldn't resist.  
> If you're wondering, Eugeniy Savchenko is my like face claim for Enjolras.  
> Enjolras' comment about scissoring isn't really a thing. Or at least, significantly more uncommon and his lack of lesbian sex knowledge is showing.  
> Also sorry for the ISO sass. The International Socialist Organization is just really excited to recruit you right-fucking-now-damnit, and I feel like Enjolras would appreciate the politics but hate the way they (in my opinion at least, feel free to disagree) talk over oppressed groups because EVERYTHING boils down to working class rights for them, whereas I'd like to think Enjolras tends to have a more nuanced opinion of the -isms and -phobias (or at least, he likes to think he does).  
> I'm sorry this chapter isn't very exciting, no car chases or explosions like I know you all normally expect. But I did want to get more babies introduced.


	5. Stigmata Pornography

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire and Enjolras FINALLY meet. It sucks.  
> Jehan and Courfeyrac FINALLY go on a date. It sucks.  
> The first semester of the shit show is grinding to an end and Grantaire's breaks are a little broken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that awkward moment when you are essentially writing a fanfiction the length of the actual work it is based on...  
> unbeta'd because the moon of my life and my common law spouse--my beautiful roommate--went back to far off Canada and the school year is starting soon.  
> TW: self-harm and drug use and Grantaire is a walking trigger warning in this I'm sorry.

> _So you want to be unhappy._  
>  You probably think you need to be in pain  
>  to be an interesting person and artist.  
>  And you're right.
> 
> Step 1)  
>  Hate yourself.  
>  You are presumably a human being  
>  between the ages of alive and dead  
>  so chances are, you're already there.  
>  Congratulations!

Courfeyrac does indeed ask Jehan to come to the meeting next week, but Jehan’s got a paper due that day at midnight, so of course it’s out of the question. The next week Courfeyrac’s got his own papers (literally three that occur on each of the three days Jehan suggests) and then Courf suggests a date when Jehan has an out of town poetry slam, and it’s a little early in their not-yet-a-relationship to invite him on four hour train rides, so that’s out of the question.

Grantaire is actually about to strangle him and have an aneurysm at the same time. Finals are way too close and Jehan still has not gotten laid (which means Grantaire still cannot vicariously live through his not-yet-a-relationship happily just yet). Courfeyrac of course asks about Jehan after their class every time, and Grantaire reminds him Jehan has his meetings with the spoken word group that night, but he’s still interested! Seriously! Scheduling is just hard. He’s almost memorized Courf’s crest-fallen puppy face, which should be Jehan’s job not his. 

They’re sitting in the smaller classroom, all around the round table, but they’re facing the blackboard as the professor lectures at them for final exam review. Grantaire is busy doodling all manners of immature images in his notebook margins when he notices Courf’s hand casually reach over from the seat next to him and scribbles some note like they’re in middle school. 

So fucking subtle.

Grantaire glances at it with a sigh: _When are you working at the café again?_

He’s in a good enough mood he responds by jotting his reply under the first note, _Right after this class. Extended hours in December before finals._

Courf smiles a little then scrawls his response, _Awesome! Mind if I bring a few friends? Warning: Might be loud._

He rolls his eyes, _When aren’t you loud? Leave me a good tip?_

Courf just grins at that, offers him a quick nod, then shoots off a text—assumedly to the friends he just mentioned.

They don’t talk again until the review session is over and they’re awkwardly leaving together, Courfeyrac apparently content to follow Grantaire all the way to his job like some creeper. Except Grantaire half-expects this from Courfeyrac now, so it’s a little less creepy. 

Either way, there’s silence the whole walk before Grantaire ducks into the staff area to put his bag and books down and Courfeyrac orders a latte from Eponine, which thank God she’s working today. Grantaire needs some of her special brand of sass in his life.

By the time he comes back out, Courfeyrac has set up his shit at the end of the long table in the middle of the café. He takes mental inventory of the rest of the customers before placing a hand on the small of Eponine’s back to get her attention from the latte she’s making, “How’s it holding up?”

She hums but doesn’t look up from the latte art she’s working on, “Same old same old. Many a tiredass, unshowered college student has wandered in and stayed for multiple hours. I think the current record-holder for today is the girl in the corner who’s been here since 2PM.” 

He whistles appreciatively, as it officially just hit 9PM when his shift started, before moving to the cash register to take a customer’s order—London fog, and he only remembers because he’s made that drink maybe twice before in the whole time he’s worked here. 

He doesn’t actually pay attention until this new customer is sitting down with Courfeyrac, all buddy-buddy like they’ve known each other for a while. Come to think of it, despite becoming the unlikely match-maker for Courfeyrac and Jehan, he doesn’t actually talk to Courf nearly so much. He knows his opinions about French Enlightenment philosophers but very little else outside of that. So what if he’s staring a little? He can’t exactly make out what they’re saying but he picks up a few words like “Coalition,” and “Allies,” and “Labor,” and he’s curious in a, “I have a feeling I’m going to hate everything you’re saying if I could hear you,” kind of way.

Right as he finishes the London fog and calls out the name—Combeferre, pretty straightforward name—he sees Eponine’s busy on another drink so he picks up the next customer at the register. And by “picks up,” it’s more like “absolutely forgets to breathe.” 

Grantaire has met a lot of hot people in his day, some of who have been naked in his presents, holla to the nude models in the art department. But “hot” doesn’t do justice to the Adonis—no, Apollo—to this Apollo before him. Attractive. If Attractiveness could be personified and put in a person, then maybe it would be half as attractive as this person he sees before him. He can tell from his eyes that he’s intelligent, maybe too intelligent for his own good, but Grantaire can work with that. He’s wearing a white silk blouse and red blazer that Grantaire would be happy to just peal off him because, goddamn those collarbones. At first he’s too floored to notice the social unacceptability of a man crossdressing, but even when this vaguely registers in the back of his mind, fuck it. Grantaire would love to fuck him.

Likewise, the man—woman?—gender non-conformist?—customer. The customer looks back at him, and Grantaire can tell he is similarly evaluating him and he can’t help but be self-conscious. He doesn’t have a chance to dwell on it because Apollo speaks, and Grantaire can’t help but listen, hanging on every syllable that slips from his lips like it’s a goddamn love song written just for him,

“Do you have fair trade coffee?”

Whoa. Hipster alert.

“Um?” Grantaire’s brain has officially short circuited.

“Fair trade, organic, coffee?” He asks slowly like Grantare is a 2 year old in pre-K. 

He opens his mouth. Shuts it. Opens it again, then turns back to Eponine, “Um?”

She looks up from cleaning the espresso machine, “What is it, ‘Taire?” 

“Fair trade organic?”

“What?”

“Thought so,” he looks back to the Apollo, “Sorry, I don’t know, so I won’t say yes to that.” He figures that’s a fair response.

Turns out Apollo may actually be the 2 year old here, because he sighs dramatically like he is infinitely disappointed he can’t have his special coffee, “Just water then.” 

Okay, Grantaire can do that. 

There’s no line behind him so he’ll just fill a cup of water like a normal person and this is simple. So what if there’s an extremely attractive person who’s presumed dick he would gladly suck? So what if he’s glaring at the back of Grantaire’s head for not having fancyass coffee? So what if Grantaire feels like a major fuck up, not even aware of what kind of coffee he pushes out day in and day out, and he’s never cared about it before, but if it’s important to this guy, maybe it’s worth looking into? Or maybe this guy’s just a pretentious douche who likes to pretend he’s making a difference with pretentious coffee to match? Or maybe Grantaire just sucks with coffee? Maybe Grantaire just sucks? 

By the time his thoughts start to reground, he realizes the water is overflowing the cheap plastic cup and he probably looks like twice the idiot right now, and oh good God can he just stop wasting air by breathing yet? 

No.  
Grantaire is a well-adjusted, responsible, adult. With a job. And a bank account. Who can fill a cup of water—

“If this is an issue, just nevermind. The water isn’t that important.”

“No! No, I mean—I’ve got it,” he comes back to the register, heart feeling like it’s about to break out of his chest in a flurry, normalass water in a normalass cup because he’s completely normal. “Sorry, I just finished up a class and it’s kind of been a long day. Here you go—“ 

He offers the cup but when Enjolras puts his hand out to take it, he misjudges and instead knocks it into his hand like a messed up fist bump. Except the full yet uncapped cup sploshes everywhere, really _everywhere_ , because Grantaire’s not exactly “in control” right now, and the customer has a nice big puddle in the middle of his white silk shirt. _And Grantaire is desperately trying not to look at him and his nipples._

They stand in awkward silence.

“Sorry—“

Apollo’s already walking away with look, goes to Courfeyrac’s table and not-so-subtley says, “I need a towel now, let’s do this at my apartment. This place isn’t worth it.”

Courfeyrac looks up at him, quirks an eyebrow but thankfully doesn’t say anything as he looks between the water on Enjolras’ shirt and Grantaire’s deer in the headlights expression. He stands with Combeferre to leave.

As the trio leave, the little bell above the door sounding off, Eponine takes pity on the still-frozen-in-his-spot Grantaire and takes the half-empty cup from his hand. 

“How you holdin’ up there?”

“Fuck me,” he says as he runs his hands over his face trying to get some sense back in him.

He was doing fine. Okay, not fine, but he had been sane enough to not go on self-deprecating rants nearly so often. But now, in the face of what he imagines perfection must be if it even exists, he feels flayed out and transparent. Like this stranger’s glare could see the tiniest nicotine stain, knew Grantaire’s tiniest alcohol cravings, knew the tiniest scars on his thighs like the back of his hand, and was judging him for every single one of them. 

“Pretty boy got your tongue?” She smirks as she tosses the cup.

“Eponine,” he whines. It’s so much more than that. 

“Nah, I don’t really swing that way for feminine guys, but I gotta admit, he’s got a really cute butt. I can appreciate your good taste.”

“Kind of a dick though,” Grantaire sighs, because talking about him instead of his feelings about him is easiest.

“That’s just because he has a stick up his ass and not your dick. I’m sure he’s actually a normal person once he’s gotten laid.” 

Grantaire’s brain again short-circuits, “It’s not--! That’s--! His sexual preferences are none of my business.”

“Yet,” she laughs, pining her bangs out of her face yet again, then changing out the empty milk cartons.

“You are not playing match-maker on this.”

“Who said anything about match-maker?”

“You didn’t have to. I know how that horrible mind of yours works. Look, I probably ruined it anyways with the water thing—“

“—yeah, not your best moment,” she hums in agreement.

“—So it doesn’t matter. Lost cause. Dead end. Do not pass go, do not collect $200,” he huffs as he goes to empty the bin of dirty dishes in the sink. 

“Grantaire,” she looks up at him from her crouched position on the ground, restocking their mini-fridge. Grantaire can see down her black scoop-neck top but he’s too busy trying to stop the background noise of his usual self-deprecating monologue that keeps playing right now. It’s like his brain is driving on a highway with no speed limit, and the best he can do is cruise control.

“Grantaire, one fuck up does not the end of the world make.” 

“Yeah, but—“

She rolls her eyes, “You sound like how you get when you’re drunk on rum—just a whole lot of sad. I can see you overthinking this from here. So what if you embarrassed yourself in front of a cute guy? There are other cute guys.” 

He nods slowly. 

He later stares at the razor for a full hour as he drinks himself stupid, but even if he won’t admit any of it, he’s proud he decides to paint instead. He likes to think this pseudo-slip-up is only temporary and he is keeping his promise to his sister.

***

The next day, Courfeyrac manages to meet up with Jehan again, FINALLY. Grantaire thinks he could piss himself, he’s so damn happy when Jehan is writing at the counter and Courfeyrac walks in. He flashes him a smile at the register and gestures with his head in Jehan’s direction so Courf notices. Courfeyrac nearly pisses himself he’s so happy too, but thankfully everyone’s a potty-trained big boy here.

He orders the usual Americano and sits next to Jehan, letting out a breathy, “Hi,” like he can’t believe he’s actually seeing him again.

Jehan glances up, a light blush dusting his cheeks as he makes sure to hide the contents of his poetry notebook, “Hi.” 

“I was a little afraid I wouldn’t see you again, honestly. We really suck at scheduling.”

He laughs a bit, “Sorry. I’m so sorry, things got hectic too fast.”

“No! No, it’s completely fine. I was just wondering, if maybe, we could actually go out some time?” 

Jehan stares up at him, because the phrasing was not “hang out” but “go out,” as in _there are definitely intentions here._

“I know this coffee shop that has kind of amazing sandwiches and I wanted to know if you’d like to get some sometime soon.”

“As a date?” because damnit, this needs to be established right this second.

Courf blinks then smiles a bit, and it’s less bashful than ever before, “Yeah. Like a date,” he says like he knows what he’s doing, like he’s been in this rodeo before.

Jehan’s not sure how he feels about that, but he knows what Grantaire would say in this situation so he’ll go along with it, “Sure, I have finals Monday, Thursday, and two Friday. So not one of those days would be helpful,” he musters up a hint of a smile to go along with it.

“I don’t have a final till Thursday anyways, so how does Tuesday sound? It’ll be a nice break after your first one,” he says easily.

“Tuesday sounds lovely, say 2PM?” 

“Perfect,” he says just as Grantaire—who totally was not holding that drink until they finalized plans—hands him the coffee, “Then Tuesday 2PM it is. We can meet outside the main campus gate? Is that okay?”  
Jehan nods, the blush creeping back now.

At that, Courf breaks into a large smile, the kind that makes weak-kneed girls swoon, “Absolutely perfect. I look forward to it with baited breath and I will see you there,” he offers a wink before heading out of the café.

Jehan’s blush has now grown three sizes that day, and Grantaire gives him a cheeky smile, “I’m so proud of you. And happy for you, I am plain happy for you, and I hope it goes well.” 

“I--,” Jehan hesitates then nods, “I am sure it will.”

***

Grantaire doesn’t see his Apollo—that’s what he’s taken to calling him in his mind, Apollo—until after his Enlightenment final with Courfeyrac. He finished pretty early, not because he knew all the right answers but because he wasn’t about to agonize and flip/flop on those he was unsure of. Grantaire liked to go with his gut reaction and deal with the ramifications later, whether it came to drinking or test-taking. So he leaves the lecture hall with worn out boots echoing on the sparse, too-expensive floors. He puts a cigarette between his lips and rolls it around by his tongue, trying to figure out what the hell he can occupy his time with between now and his shift in 2 hours.

He catches a shock of blonde hair from the end of the hall and can’t help himself. He strides over just in case, not even realizing he’s doing it when he starts walking. There are hundreds of blonde girls on his campus, the chance it is the single cross-dresser is such an anomaly—

Fuck his luck.

Fuck it in the butt.

Well, now he has walked over there, noticeably the only person in the whole hallway with its high ceilings and dark hardwood and loud marble floors, he doesn’t occupy the space well. And less than 20 feet is the Apollo from that ill-fated night. Grantaire has no idea what his life is now, just that it has somehow come to revolve around intense feelings for a certain Greek God he’d only spoken to poorly one time. He wants to say hi; he wants to bear his soul and tell him about his papercuts and the 2 euro he found on the street and his lost pen and the scars on his thighs and the wine stains on his Moliere anthology. But he feels like his tongue has swollen three sizes and he is frozen on the spot for a moment.

Long enough a moment that Apollo notices and can’t help but glance up.

The eye contact is both electric and awkward--depends on who you ask.

Grantaire offers a tiny smile because he is a dork. Apollo stares back with a blank look.

Now it is entirely awkward.

Deep breath, turn, walk out. Simple. He follows mechanical motions like a tin man just greased, because while he now remembers how to move his legs, his nerves still get the better of him. The second he’s out of the imposing doors, his lighter is out and his cigarettes burns bright tones, casting smoke signals for tiny gods into the night as he wonders just when his life got messy. Maybe if he’s lucky, the Universe, those tiny gods, will reset his life like a dislocated shoulder, and yeah it might hurt but he needs the shock at this point.

There’s near no one on the quad but he rounds the building corner just to be safe before he takes the cigarette and sticks it hard at the junction of his wrist, twists till he gets a good burn and his teeth rip his lip, break skin, take another begin again, because one is never enough with bad habits. 

He licks blood from his teeth and dots his third now on his arm, where he knows long sleeves can hide it and he can deny it when summer comes and it’s finally faded. They’re his own version of track marks when he doesn’t have smack on hand—Eugenie would be proud, he rarely has smack on hand—before he feels like he is present. He is here.  
He is here. 

And so might be Apollo, but Grantaire doesn’t have time to worry about that because another one is digging into his skin.

***

He makes sure he does smoke through at least one cigarette properly before he gets back into the café for his shift, only three more shifts in his first semester hot damn, with much higher spirits. He catches Eponine just at the end of her shift, kisses her on the cheek as he goes to grab an apron,

“Hope you didn’t miss me too badly,” he purrs out as he crowds her space.

“That is some wishful thinking on your part, ‘Taire,” She laughs like it’s been a good day and he is thankful.

He didn’t notice Jehan sitting at the counter as usual, but he happily chimes in, “You just finished an exam right? And in one piece, I’m really proud of you.”

Usually something like that would be patronizing enough Grantaire would want to punch a face or two, but from Jehan he knows the words are genuine so he kisses his forehead before responding, “Indeed. My first and only exam of freshman first semester has been completed. I motion the committee for a floor vote on the idea of celebratory libations this evening,” he says with a flourish.

“The committee has an exam tomorrow morning and afternoon, and therefore will have to Nay-say the idea,” He sighs, fingering his textbook idly like an old and experienced lover, like he wants a goddamn divorce.

“I weep for the committee,” Grantaire offers, making Jehan his favorite decaf drink, “Yet must ask what are you doing here in this noisy place when major studying is a thing?”

Jehan smiles lightly, “Test anxiety. I used to get all stress vomit-y, praying to the porcelain god before exams. So I figured being around people and friends would be a better alternative. It’s not like I’d get much studying done sick and worried anyways.”

“Well, this half of the committee would love to, if she did not have a potential date tonight,” Eponine says with a secretive smile.

Grantaire gawks while Jehan smiles knowingly, “Damn gurl, get it in.”

“My vagina’s contents are none of your business, Grantaire,” she says pulling her apron off.

“Just offering friendly advice,” he shrugs as he sharpies the paper cup. 

“Says the boy with not so much as a single date this semester?” Jehan asks teasingly.

“Says the world-weary artist who knows his way around a thing or two,” he correct.

“If you refer to a vagina or dick as ‘a thing or two’ then I question the validity of that statement,” Eponine laughs, “And on that note, I am running late. And before you ask, no I’m not even sure it’s a real date date, but ask Jehan if you want details. Be good, lock up properly and congrats on your exam again,” she winks at him before grabbing her coat and bag from the staff roam and leaving in the excited hurry.

“My babies, all growing up,” Grantaire sighs fondly as he finishes the sharpie drawing and fills Jehan’s cup to the brim with decaf mango vanilla latte goodness. He’s drawn a skull with roses and peonies and wildflowers all coming out of its orifices, and the Voltaire quote “We must cultivate our garden,” for good measure. Cliché? Yes. But everyone needs a Voltaire pick me up now and again.

Jehan smiles appreciatively, takes a long hot sip, then gives the T, “She’s got a not-quite-date with a regular customer here, but he only comes in the mornings when you refuse to work. He’s got really cute freckles and he’s an awkward puppy with not a single bad intention in him, though he is a little clueless. Or a lot of clueless. He’s a little blunt, but you know it’s in this sweet, awkward way. They’re going out for night breakfast.”  
“Night breakfast sounds like a serious thing. Well, better question: whose idea was night breakfast?” Grantaire asks before having to attend to a customer.

Jehan waits patiently till he’s making the actual drink, “Eponine’s.”

“So she wants it to be a date-date, but he might be clueless about it.”

Jehan sighs, eyes grazing the textbook obviously not processing the writing, “Yep, essentially. But I really do hope it works out for them, because he is really sweet and she really deserves it.”

Grantaire nods sagely, finishes the drink, then turns to Jehan as he makes himself some coffee, “And what about you and Courfeyrac? Is that a serious thing too?”

Jehan makes a face like an infinitely sad and confused cat, “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? Christ, after all that texting?” Grantaire’s not sure if he should laugh or bemoan it.

“He tried to put the moves on me.”

“Please try that statement again in modern day language and not like a 50’s rockabilly.”

“He was just really, really flirtatious. Like, awkwardly. Like, I can’t even deal with you right now, your libido and you obviously need to get a room and work some issues out.” 

“Or he just really likes you?”

“Then he needs to never show it that way again.”

“So did he try anything you didn’t like or was it just uncomfortable because you weren’t feeling it and he was trying really hard?” Grantaire leans over the counter with his elbows.  
“I don’t—I want someone to show they care and they’re interested by being reassuring and by being interested in what I’m saying and all. Not by actively wanting something from me? Does that make sense?”  
“Wanting what? Like a kiss? Like sex? Like, was he just overbearingly forward?”

“Essentially. Like,” Jehan sighs, “Like anything? Oh my god, like there’s,”  
Jehan sighs again then looks at Grantaire like he is the only person who exists in the world, like he is fantastic in every way and tunnel vision has just been initiated, and he says with heart breaking sincerity, “I really like you,”  
and then it’s all gone in a flash, “And then there’s,” Jehan steals himself for another example, taking on an easy smile and cocky eyes,  
“I really like you,” he says self-assuredly. 

Grantaire just stares for a moment, amazed that Jehan could fake both of those so convincingly, “Um. So I guess he was the second?”

Jehan nods, taking his latte up again, “Essentially. I don’t know if the former isn’t true too, but he was showing off the latter and I don’t have time for that. I don’t care about that and his flirting got old fast.”

Grantaire nods and sips his own drink, “Can I talk to him for you or something then? Just casually if I see him in the shop or something.”

He nods vaguely, “I don’t see why not. Either he’ll listen and I might have an actually enjoyable date, or he’ll continue this and we won’t go out again, which is what I’m kind of expecting now anyways. So, nowhere to go but up essentially.”

“I’m sorry boys suck.”

“I heard about yours from Eponine, and I’m sorry boys suck too.” 

Grantaire’s expression shuts down like a bank vault and he pulls away from the counter. Jehan has yet to see his friend put up barriers so quickly and he’s not sure how to backtrack right now, “Um, I’m sorry. We don’t have to talk about it, just if you want to at any point, I will definitely be here for you.”

Grantaire nods, though he’s busying himself washing some of the dishes in the sink, checking that his watch and sleeves hide the burn marks, “S’all good.” 

Jehan’s unconvinced, but Grantaire turns back at him and smiles “Really, it’s okay. I’m still embarrassed about it, but it’s not like anything had started up, I don’t even know the guy’s name.” 

He nods slowly, still not buying it but he won’t bring it up again and Grantaire knows that, so really it’s enough to get them through the evening.

***

Grantaire only has one final exam, but his three studio classes all require a final project. He is on his first final final project in his college career now. He is on hash and LSD now. He ate two brownies and swallowed a blotter he happened to have lying around when that wasn’t sufficient. He doesn’t know when he became the type to have a blotter lying around for rainy days like this. This shit is due tomorrow and it just made sense—or something.  
It was an abstract color-menagerie of an impressionistic Seine that looked ostensibly pretty, but he can’t. He just can’t.  
The assignment was to paint France, any part of it, how he sees it, how he feels it and breathes it.

He douses it in red. 

White and blue make their way onto the canvas somehow

And he’s finger painting—whoa that’s new

Because it makes sense in all the wrong ways, and he feels in colors now, and for some reason those colors come out as a pretty realistic rendition of a certain dickwad’s face, and there’s traces of realism mixing in with abstract. And if he could put France on a canvas, he’d cover the white space in Apollo’s ass with a flag gripping at his hips, but he barely knows the guy so he settles from Ingres’ Odalisque except better, redder, angrier yet more brilliant and maybe it’s the LSD or the hash or this new and frankly concerning not-quite-obsession, but when he finally comes to at 7AM, he has a thin 2/0 brush tight between his fingers, the weight of exhaustion is heavy on his shoulders, and he is painting those blue eyes so brightly that he will gladly break off his relationship with his bed and finish this productive flurry that has gotten him this far.

***

Despite not remembering painting most of it, despite the fact that it is so obviously the Apollo he keeps running into someone is bound to recognize the face, despite the fact that he is buck-naked with France’s colors practically shat on the canvas as an abstract afterthought, the professor is impressed and now “expects great things.”

Looks like he might become the type of guy to have a whole pack of blotters now for those rainy days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was not a fan writing this. The issue comes up of "Telling someone else's story," and in writing a lot of self-harm stuff, that's what it feels like in this case. Some of R's interior monologues in here are heavily based on me + my shit, and I have been mighty low in my time but despite the same ideation, I personally have not done anything R does in this fic. And so, I am trying so hard SO HARD to be respectful while putting my all into this fic (because if we remember all the way back to the first part ;) this was me emotionally processing shit in my life) And so like...call me out if I fuck shit up. Because while this isn't like an autobiographical novel where I'm pretending all this happened to me, it's still not my story and I don't want to mess it up because #feelings.  
> (randomly, the French version of monopoly's instructions do say $200)  
> Unrelatedly, I think Enjolras' mind kinda works as "Us; them; the abstract oppressed." And right now Grantaire is in "them" and he'll stop being a dickish weirdo once Grantaire kinda.. enters the group and becomes that satellite at the Musain trapped in his orbit, a shaky part of the "us" category. Or maybe I just like dickish Enjolras. >:U fight me in my preferences  
> I am sorry it is taking so long to get there OTL I don't think my pacing is horrible though? Grantaire's and Jehan's intro just took so damn long but I'd like to think story flow isn't too bad.


	6. Isolation is not Safety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winter break hits.  
> Grantaire asks a certain demigod out with disastrous consequences.  
> Courfeyrac does something kind of stupid but we only hear about it after the fact.  
> Same with Eponine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unbeta'd and barely edited because I am all kinds of exhausted. For some reason I really wanted to upload this right now but I'll probably edit later.

> _I've been thinking about driving nowhere._  
>  I've been thinking about becoming a box  
>  inside a locked room   
>  inside a dark house at the end of the street.  
>  I want to go away till I'm gone.  
>  It takes so much less energy to not exist  
>  than it takes to exist  
>  and get burned.  
>  I've been burned so much I'm not me anymore.

 

There’s only two weeks in Winter Break and Grantaire is determined to make up every excuse in the book not to go home. That means he’s spending Christmas and New Years in Paris, alone. Jehan’s flight left the evening after his final week-madness, and Eponine has some family stuff that she left first chance she got too. So Grantaire is essentially squatting in his dorm room with all the booze he managed to stash (and whatever’s left over of the brownies from last week) and a few leftovers that should have been thrown out weeks ago? Maybe?

On maybe the third day of the drunken haze accompanied by a lot of old Edith Piaf records and a couple brownies, he finally recognizes the need for real food and a shave. He keeps a healthy amount of stubble—hiding the scars from a few drunk shaving escapades—and drinks a few glasses of water to sober up enough to appear quite sober, before grabbing his coat and Chucks. He wanders around looking for some market without horrible prices, buys a cup of coffee, wanders around more. He passes a lot of different stalls in the chilling air, but with it being December, produce isn’t exactly cheap. Besides, he’s not upset he has to walk around Paris.

The wind is harsh, but it’s all a backdrop of grey. There’s no snow but the streets are shiny with and the trees are all but dark rickety claws. He wants to laugh at the tourists mulling about, but really this is his first winter in Paris too, so he can’t judge much. The chain-smoking comes in handy here, keeping him warm despite the weather. The coffee cup is drained all too quickly, as he rounds a corner by Raspail he sees it and fuck FINALLY. There’s an outdoor market (In December? Really?) with so much produce he feels pretty sober right now at the sight. He goes to the stand with especially bright endives and cabbage. He knows enough about produce he B-lines for the ones that grow naturally in the winter and looks for the edible yet not exactly “cream of the crop” so he can heckle.

He’s fingering his way through the kale and broccoli when he notices someone comes up next to him looking at the cabbage. His eyes barely glance over once, but he does do the double-take and shit.

Shit damn, fuck a damn, fuck a damn, damn.

_It’s motherfucking Apollo._

It is the winter break, why on earth isn’t he at home? Apollo’s in sinfully tight jeans and flat boots with a bright red coat. His far too gorgeous hair, really even Aphrodite’s weave couldn’t compare, is piled up in a messy bun on the top of his head, curls falling around and into his face. He stands out like a sore thumb against the grey scenery, if a sore thumb were a beautiful androgynous angel.

It is now or never.

Grantaire is just drunk enough that this is a good idea.

So he looks at Apollo, and offers a bit of a smile, and hopes he sounds better than he thinks he does.

“Are you sure this market is organic-enough for you, Apollo?”

 _Fuck._ He used the nickname. _Fuck._ He might’ve sounded like he was serious in his teasing.

His slim fingers stall on an endive but he doesn’t glance over at Grantaire, “Considering that this is a local, organic farmer’s market, yes. It is,” He says it like he's annoyed to answer such an obvious question.

“Are you sure about that? You don’t want to double check with any of the stall-owners?” Grantaire says before he can stop himself, his mouth just keeps prodding the proverbial bull.

“Oh, I have,” he says in a tone that Grantaire can’t tell if he’s joking or serious, but considering the stick up his ass, it’s probably the latter.

Okay, switch tactics. “I didn’t think anyone was really staying on campus.”

Apollo hums non-commitedly and checks the cabbage again.

“So what are you doing here?” He tries an actual question this time.

“Staying on campus.”

 _Fuck him_ , but Grantaire chuckles a little, “You know what I mean, smartass.”

 Apollo sighs, and finally turns to him, “I volunteer at a few places that don’t have the luxury to take a winter break.”

“What places?” he asks as he bags some broccoli and cauliflower.

“Homeless shelter and the animal shelter,” he says, “they can always use extra hands so if you’re interested, I’d be happy to show you where and how to get involved,” because every chance he has to plug a cause, he’ll do it.

Grantaire snorts, “Good luck with that, I’ll leave the do-gooding to your more experienced hands.”

Apollo tilts his head slightly, “You make it sound like there’s something wrong with doing good.”

Grantaire shrugs, “Not my intention.”

“Then what was your intention?”

Grantaire sees an opening, and finally makes eye contact with Apollo, “To ask you out for coffee.”

It’s bold. He knows it. He’d never do this if he was sober. But he likes the banter, and he can’t help it. It felt like the cool and smooth thing to say—

“Never,” he says with a flash of his perfect eyebrows before paying quickly and leaving the stand.

Grantaire’s not sure whether he should hyperventilate or cry, but he takes it like a man, whatever that means, and finishes picking out food.

The walk back to his dorm is filled with Grantaire overanalyzing his life decisions, how he’ll die alone as a crazy dog man, how he’s the creepiest person in the world, how he’s best off a drunken mess rather than actually socializing, he’s going to fail all his classes, he’ll be a brokeass artist not even fit to teach children, and if he’s lucky he’ll die from alcohol poisoning and drown in the Seine. That’s the best case scenario for his life.

So of course when he makes it to his dorm, he hangs his coat, puts the groceries away, and strips down to a t-shirt and boxers then he goes to pour himself some whiskey. As he is pouring, that’s when he actually does break down crying and then starts hyperventilating.

He doesn’t know where it comes from but this is absolutely ridiculous; he spoke to this one guy and he can’t even keep himself together. It’s the self-pity that just exacerbates it. Everyone’s left for break so there’s no one to talk him down from the panic, but he’s not even in the mood to rationalize through this. He’s just a ball of feelings right now and those feelings need exercise--in the form of an anxiety attack. Great.

He just lets it go on for about minute until he starts to get dizzy and figures that’s a sign to start working through this. He doesn’t bother wiping the tears, but puts his hands over his face and sinks down into a ball then lies on the floor, trying to stop the shaky breaths with his diaphragm. He focuses hard--feels like a failure because he has to focus so hard and that just makes him cry more--but he forces his diaphragm to pay attention until he can breathe like a normal human being. He’s still crying now, but that’s easier to deal with, and he just lets that run its course.

A few minutes later, he is in his underwear, on his floor, dealing with a post-attack headache from Hades, all over some guy.

“Pathetic” is the understatement of the century, but Grantaire is exhausted and a nap seems in order. He does not protest.

***

He drains the whole bottle that night before finally cooking some of the food.

That essentially overshadows the entirety of his break. He goes from drunken and high haze to drunken and high haze, mostly in a pair of boxers and some nondescript t-shirt. As a man who knows his way around liquor, he only gets drunk enough to vomit once but when he does, some gets on his high school band T-shirt. He notices it's a horrible juxtaposition about his lack of innocence when he throws the thing out.

Every time he wanders around campus and sees a bit of blonde hair, his heart does a little flip that he knows he really shouldn’t be allowed to have, but it’s fine. He’s fine.

He survives.

***

He spends Christmas Eve skyping with his sister, and he’s not too rusty with his signing. They talk about the school dance, about the boy she had asked to go with her. They talk about her academic track and how much she hates the Bac exam. She's thinking of taking a gap year and just traveling for a while and Grantaire couldn't support it more. Just seeing her smile though makes his heart flip in the good way, and he tries to memorize the moment.

***

He doesn’t remember New Years Eve.

He wakes up the morning though in a puddle of gin with a bloody hand, a broken bottle like sad windowpanes to a cliche soul, and a few darkening bruises. Was it a bar fight? He remembers bits and pieces as he gropes around in the cobwebbed corners of his brain, and he remembers going to a bar. He remembers a punch splitting his lip. And he remembers the fumble with his lock to get home and his slow fingers feeling up his booze stash after. He can’t tell if the headache is pure hangover or if he’d been crying that hard and he figures that’s pretty sad.

***

Eponine is the first back and the second he finds out, he shows up at her dorm with the mandate that they go out for drinks. Grantaire is paying so she can’t say no.

They go to the Corinth, a local bar with a bunch of socialist memorabilia interestingly enough, and their elbows crowd each other as they do vodka shots.

“So,” Eponine starts with a large grin, “Nice to see you survived your voluntary solitary confinement.”

“It was a struggle but yes, I pushed through,” He shrugged already ordering another drink.

“Paris at Christmas time is very romantic, has your semester of celibacy finally ended?”

Grantaire lets out a heavy sigh, “Not exactly.”

“Well,” she pokes his shoulder, “Mine has indeed ended.”

He fixes her with a stare, “With the night breakfast boy? Not with the night breakfast boy, you went home. Who did you sleep with at home?”

She giggles, drinking the shot he had ordered for himself, “He’s kind of my ex? Except we never dated. We just hooked up, except high school hook up is a lot different than college hook up, let me tell ya. Distance makes the heart grow fonder and his dick—“

“Okay! Okay, great. Congrats on the sex, I’ll order you a cake if you want,” Grantaire sighs and orders yet another shot.

She shrugs, “It was good. I mean, he’s not a _good guy_ or anything. But he is a very good lay and I have no complaints. It was the only diamond on the otherwise pile of shit I always deal with at home.”

“How are your siblings doing? You said you went back mostly for them?” Grantaire asks.

“Gavroche and Azelma are fine, no thanks to my parents. Yours?”

He nods then downs the shot, “Eugenie’s doing well. She’s met a boy, but her prospects are going much better than mine.”

“Did you meet a boy over break?”

Grantaire shakes his head, “Not really. I mean, yes? Same boy, but I didn’t try to drown him this time and we had an actual conversation. Before you ask, he completely rejected me. Like, didn’t even care enough to try and be nice about it. I’ll be over it maybe next century.”

“ _It is one boy, Grantaire.”_

“I know,” he rubs the back of his neck, “I know.”

Eponine rests her head on his shoulder, “Poor baby. No, really I’m sorry.”

He runs a hand through her hair, “I don’t know when I became such a cry baby about one fucking guy.”

“It happens. And it sucks now, but really. It’ll get better. And then you’ll have all the mind-blowing sex where he even sticks his finger in your—“

“Eponine! Your sex life is not nearly as interesting as you think!”

She snorts, “Don’t be such a prude, ‘Taire. I have been dying to tell someone and I know you’ll listen.”

“Why couldn’t you tell anyone at home?”

“Well,” She starts as she sits up and leans her chin on her fist, “He’s got a bit of a reputation at home and I didn’t want people being all judgmental on me.”

Grantaire blinks, “Reputation for what exactly?”

“Partying and shit, I guess. Like I said, he’s good for a lay but I don’t expect anything else.”

He nods slowly, “Okay, that’s good. Realistic expectations are good. I’m just wondering if I should be worried.”

“Not at all, m’dear,” She pats his cheek, “Buy me another drink and I’ll give you the best story you’ve heard all break.”

***

They fall together that night in a tangle of limbs on Grantaire’s sad couch when they get a call, or more specifically Eponine gets a call but puts it on speakerphone, from Jehan saying his flight has landed and he’s on his way back to campus—and HE has the best story they’ve heard all of break.

They break out one of Grantaire’s last bottle from the Winter Break Stash and have already poured three drinks by the time Jehan’s back.

 

“Hey,” he sighs when Grantaire opens the door and all-but tackles him with a hug.

“Hey, you. How was Canada? Did you turn back into a lumberjack? Did you get laid like Eponine?”

Jehan laughs into Grantaire’s chest then pulls away, moving past him to collapse on the couch, “I am exhausted from the stupid jetlag, but otherwise I’m okay. Canada was okay. I’m pretty sure I’m still a poet and I haven’t held a chainsaw in my life. And no, I did not get laid. But something even crazier happened.”

“Crazier?” Grantaire laughs, piling onto the couch with him.

“You think you can beat my Winter Break Story?” Eponine smiles from the rolling chair at Grantaires mostly-unused desk.

Jehan nods, taking up a glass of wine, “Indeed. I saw Courf.”

Grantaire nearly chokes, “You came back to Paris?”

“Nope, I was in Canada all of break,” Jehan shakes his head looking quite haggard.

“So when did you see Courf?” Grantaire asks as he repositions himself more at the end of the couch.

“He visited.”

“ _He visited?”_ Eponine and Grantaire both echo in unison.

“He did indeed. Showed up at my house and I wasn’t even sure we were boyfriends? But it happened? So I guess he’s serious about us but it’s also really fucking weird?”

Grantaire nods slowly, “But he didn’t tell you about this earlier?”

“Nope.”

“Okay, um. Boundaries. That’s weird. Probably well-meaning, but really weird,” Grantaire says with a sip of wine.

“Wait so what happened when he showed up?” Eponine asks, folding her legs up in the chair.

“He met my family? Which was not awesome. My parents always suspected I was gay, and now it’s official in their eyes despite the fact, _I have never come out to them,”_ Jehan sighs and there’s years of unspoken family mess they’re all too accustomed to. “But aside from that, we went for this really long walk which was actually nice. I missed the forest and the grounds and all that, and I missed _good_ conversation, so it wasn’t a bad visit. Just weird in a lot of different ways.”

“So do you _like_ him yet?” Eponine asks.

Jehan sighs, “Nothing’s really changed. It was like out of a romantic comedy but I still felt how I would if you or Grantaire just showed up unexpected. Except, I was a lot more awkward than if it were you or Grantaire.”

 “So you do like him?”

“ _So he likes me._ And I get nervous about that. It doesn’t mean I want to kiss him or anything, that didn’t happen. Though trust me, he was giving me every single sign that he wanted to,” he takes a very long swig of the wine.

Eponine just shakes her head, “I don’t understand that at all.”

“Yeah, well I really don’t need you to,” Jehan says before he can stop himself. “Sorry, sorry. I am just all tired and cranky.”

She shrugs and gets up, crowding them on the couch till they’re essentially a cuddle pile, “No offense at all. I just want to make sure you’re happy, and if that doesn’t include Courfeyrac sucking your dick, then that’s okay.”

He chuckles, “Thank you for the reassurance.”

Grantaire scoots closer and Jehan takes the opportunity to rest his head on his chest, “Eponine certainly got busy with a guy from her hometown, but I’m not letting her tell me all the dirty details.”

Jehan smiles, “I would love nothing more than if you told _me_ though. You know I love a good love story.”

“It’s not a love story,” she protests but gets ready to tell it anyways, “but it is a good normal story. He’s got these tattoos and this face, and his eyes—“

“He sounds beautiful, Eponine,” Jehan smiles into his wine glass.

“Let me find a picture, you’re the poet, not me,” she fishes her phone from her jeans and scrolls through it, finding the single picture she has before passing it between her friends, “His name is Montparnasse and he’s kind of sex on legs.”

The picture’s not the best quality, but they can see the jet black pompadour and undercut with traditional-style tattoos creeping up his neck. He’s in a silk blazer with spiked shoulder pads, and his tie is made of glitter.

“Are you sure he’s not really fucking gay?” Grantaire asks.

“Is that guyliner?” Jehan squints at the picture.

“You cannot contest that that isn’t sexy. It’s not jeans and a t-shirt, I know, but it’s like Las Vegas male stripper in a good way. I’m not passing on a good Las Vegas male stripper,” Eponine says as she takes it back.

Grantaire nods in some agreement, fingers idly running their way through Jehan’s fluffy hair, “I would fuck it, I must admit.”

Jehan glances up at him, “Did you have a good break?”

“Grantaire got his heart broken,” Eponine shrugs.

“I’m sorry, love. But if you want to tell me, you know I love a good heart break story too,” Jehan offers with a tiny smile.

“It’s not even a thing. I mean, I really shouldn’t have this many feelings tied up with a guy I haven’t dated. I just,” He hesitates as he lightly scratches at Jehan’s scalp, “I feel like a mess around him. And I think just never trying to talk to him again is the best course of action right now.”

Jehan nods slowly, “Is this the pretty cross-dresser Eponine told me about in finals week?”

Grantaire nods, letting out a shaky sigh and he’s not sure when just talking about this guy made him want to cry.

Jehan’s quiet for a bit and sips his wine, “I think Courfeyrac is friends with him. He was talking about he usually hangs out with Combeferre who wears glasses, and Enjolras who wears a skirt.”

Grantaire blinks. He takes a deep breath and says the name quietly, trying the syllables on for size, “Enjolras?”

He hums affirmatively, “He invited me to a meeting again with his friends/social justice group. I want to go for the social justice but I’m not sure how I feel about meeting his friends.”

“Well, he’s met your family, so I don’t think that’s abnormal,” Eponine shrugs.

“I just don’t want to be filled in a room of people where I only know one of them,” Jehan sighs.

“We should all go!” Grantaire blurts out, fingers stilled in Jehan’s strawberry waves, “I mean—you know, for moral support. And I guess, if Enjolras is there that wouldn’t be horrible, but if I have to face him, having you guys would really help. And if having us there will help Jehan, it all works out.”

Jehan nods slowly, “There’s a meeting in the beginning of the new semester we could go to?”

“Do I get true love too if I go?” Eponine asks as she finishes off her wine glass.

Jehan glances over at her, “I think that Marius guy you got night breakfast with is in it? Or at least, comes by now and then? So maybe he’ll be there, if that works.”

She breaks into a grin at that, “Wait, seriously? I never saw him after that, and he didn’t call over break. So I didn’t expect—okay. Okay, let’s all go.”

And it’s decided after that. They fall asleep as they work their way through the bottle, all tired from vacation and too comfortable on the tiny couch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a certain scene in mind that I am trying to push through to get to because goddamn.  
> I took all my feelings and put them on Grantaire essentially i don't even care. (that's a lie)  
> Also, not-boyfriends buying plane tickets on a whim and flying to their not-boyfriend's family home in the middle of break--that has happened to a friend of mine. I'm not even kidding, and yeah. It's really weird.  
> I'm sorry, there's a tiny bit of deus ex machina with this because I wasn't sure how else to forward the plot but the ball is officially rolling. I don't like the pacing of this, but not a lot happens in Grantaire's winter break, what else can I say.  
> i'm tired. wow.


	7. Noisy Sermons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> quote from Derrick Brown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> w00t rewritten more coherent finally real interactions

> _You can carry a knife and still trust everyone._  
>  Carry it in your mouth.  
>  Every time you open it  
>  we await the sharpening noise of worship.  
>  Cry out into the darkness a sermon that does not cease.  
>  You cannot be abandoned.  
>  You can only be released.

Grantaire does end up going to a meeting with Jehan and Eponine a few weeks after. Grantaire's done his best to recover from the winter funk, seemingly moved on and pleasantly distracted by his job and friends and all the joys of being a student. He is able to function like a normal human being who is though of course it takes some effort. He's worried and anxious for this--the true test of how far he's seemingly come. As they come up to the door of the Musain, he stops to try and center himself, gearing up for whatever his feelings feel like doing today. He takes one deep breath and kooks to Eponine and Jehan, expecting them to stop and give him one final pep talk before they go in. But they're already waltzing into the place, so he's forced to finish recovering his faculties on his own before entering.

They've been to the cafe Musain before, but it's never been like this: so buzzing with energy as the voice of a certain blond angel wafts over the rafters from the second story seating area. He's on edge, clutching at Jehan's hand for all the moral support in the world. They each order their drink in turn then climb the wrought iron stairs up to the warm upper level, all the tables having been pushed in together with as many chairs as possible it seems, all listening to Enjolras. Grantaire is content to sit in the corner and while Jehan and Eponine hesitate, they can't argue with his b-line to the seat. Enjolras doesn't seem to notice the trio taking up the furthest corner, and Grantaire finds himself infinitely thankful. For now, he's content to watch with his friends. Baby steps and all.

Enjolras stands tall and straight, ranting with a voice that Grantaire can't help but adore. He is a damn good presenter and he knows it, has no trouble broadcasting his buckets of confidence out the wazoo.

Grantaire at first is enraptured. Then he starts actually listening to the words.

Enjolras is espousing all the anarcho-syndicalist ideology one can muster. He speaks of workers’ rights and representation, the living wage and retirement age, he is going hard and old school referencing _Socialisme ou Barbarie_ and the early 20th century French movements that he still seems to believe in with all kinds of idealism.

Grantaire's image of him is cracked now. Enjolras is gorgeous, yes. Grantaire would question the sanity of anyone who wouldn't find even the simple curve of his neck stunning. But while Grantaire can abide by the anxiety of a pretty face in the wake of his own personal uncertainty and insecurity, he cannot deal with wrong politics. He watches, still transfixed, as his eyes track every movement, every breath he takes, but the marble is cracked. He tries to salvage the pieces, listens on silently with the inkling of a hope that he tempers the wide-eyed impracticality of the entire argument--but Enjolras remains steadfast in his politics like he seriously, TRULY believes somewhere down in that heart of his that his utopianism could actually succeed.

Grantaire turns to Jehan, "Is this guy serious?"

He's not nearly as quiet as he wishes, or maybe Enjolras really is just a hawk in his precision, but he zeroes in on not only the comment, but more specifically Grantaire, "Excuse me?" he pauses mid-speech.

Grantaire stares at him--that seems all he's good at when it comes to Enjolras--as he feels the whole room shift its attention to him. This, he is not used to. It's not that he doubts his public speaking abilities, but when Enjolras has got that fierce glint in his eyes, it takes him a moment to regain his faculties. But he feels the familiar press of Jehan's knee against him and it helps to center him, remind him to be present. So he takes a chance, it's not like this is that first time they spoke again, "Are you serious in your arguments?"

Enjolras puts a hand on his hip, "I wouldn't be saying them if I wasn't."

"Then I'm surprised idealists like you still exist, is all." He says as his gaze turns downward, expecting the conversation to be left at that.

Enjolras, however, is not one to do things halfway, and if he is to argue and debate with a purpose, then that is exactly what he shall do, so he continues, "There are more 'idealists' than simply myself. Were not most of the 'great men' of social reform "extremists" and "idealists"? I don't consider myself one, I'm not so honored, but that certainly shows there are those of like minds outside of myself."

Grantaire's eyes turn towards the bottle in front of him, "And they are all dead and gone for a reason."

Enjolras actually frowns at that and shifts his stance so he's at his proper height now, "How, pray tell, am I actually an 'idealist'? Prove to me the impracticalities and flaws in my argument if you're going to say something here."

Grantaire wishes he'd just let this go. He knew coming here was a mistake; seeing Enjolras always ended in some kind of train wreck and he was finally just coming out of the Winter Break Funk. He bites his lip in consideration for a moment, then takes up the bottle, taking a long chug--to which Enjolras only frowns more at--then sets it down hard before fixing his eyes with Enjolras', "The most obvious issue you're running into is the fact that this shitty capitalist system is what runs the world. And you might've had some inkling of an opportunity back in the 18th century, but that was 300 years ago, and you can't escape capitalism even to get some kind of foothold to then institute your ridiculous solidarity economy."

"Firstly," Enjolras starts right on the heels of Grantaire's end, "the solidarity economy has already gained ground in co-operative movements and the current push for fair trade. There are indeed avenues it's expressing itself already. And secondly," his hand is on his hip again, and Grantaire vaguely thinks he looks like a stunning model that desperately needs to be painted, "The fact that these are in place already suggests the cultural awakening that is indeed happening and is currently eroding the shitty capitalist system such that there are future footholds for more extensive change."

Grantaire can't even pretend to bite back the quiet scoff, "Do you believe this 'fair trade' movement is indicative of a cultural consciousness or prissy rich white people feeling a little bad, so they work these campaigns in developing nations so seemingly informed hipsters can buy their products and feel better about buying organic soy lattes."

Grantaire watches the gears turn in Enjolras' head and he quite likes that look: that soft surprise like he seriously didn't believe Grantaire could make a real argument. He can't blame him, necessarily; Grantaire did suck at speaking last semester. But he's already been rejected and swallowed that shame in a drunken haze of self-pity. He's a man without much to lose now. he doesn't expect anything out of this, doesn't have any more hopes for their (lack of) relationship. It's just pure annoyance at the shit attitude up til this point and pure annoyance at the uninformed idealism that he's officially done with.

Enjolras again shifts his position to the other foot before speaking, "FairTrade International and other NGOs are not in the business of 'making themselves feel better,' they're trying to improve lives. Furthermore, there are fairtrade campaigns run by people of color and people in these developing nations as well. But anyways, we're getting off of the main argument," he steps closer to Grantaire, rounding the large table to the corner, "The solidarity economy is a branch of social democracy, which is the system we already have in place. Sure, the final end game is a more utopian structure of left anarchism, but I'm not naive in methods for achievement. The revolution is coming, the government's weakness and the people's discontent will ensure that, but in the meantime in order to improve the lives of people who need it now," he's but a few feet from Grantaire's table now, taking center stage, "This solidarity economy is indeed the way to achieve it."

Grantaire's staring at this man in all his glory, and he feels infinitely small. He glances over at Jehan as casually as he can muster because somehow, looking Enjolras in the eyes seems impossible. Jehan's next to him, not looking at him expectantly but impressed. Like Grantaire's doing a good job for once. Like this is a good thing. He knows the whole room's attention is on him so he takes another long drink, and finally decides if he is to have an audience, then he better put on a show. If Enjolras can be a dick to him in such meticulous degree, then surely Grantaire can bring that out of him in its entirety. Grantaire wants to show how brilliant and horrible Enjolras can be, not only to those gathered here, but to himself. He feels like he's taking the stage with warm spotlights all trained on him, preparing for a solo.

So he sits up, sets his jaw, and takes on a smile, "I humbly disagree, mighty Apollo," as Enjolras frowns at the condescension, "For you see, not everyone likes to drop everything and live in a co-op. I would even wager that they quite enjoy their cushy, consumerist lifestyle. For many, many people the capitalist system has served them well and what self-interested person would throw away cheesy pizza crust and their H&M sweaters?" 

"Not everyone is so self-interested--"

"If you can make that argument, then certainly I can say not everyone is so selfless."

"Rousseau's social contract says exactly people will come together in the best interest of the group and that includes--"

"Rousseau was written in the 18th century you seem so pleased with, but the social contract hasn't been fulfilled yet in all those years. Please leave your anachronisms at the door."

"The recent protests all across the Middle East example just how people can come together--!"

"You fail to recognize self-interest and the power of religious ideology that was the major force of mobilization in those cases. And yet you seem to want to abolish religion."

"Religion has historically been useful but not when it's furthered by intolerance--"

"Oh Apollo, don't get all Lockean on me or I may yet swoon."

"Locke's Letter Concerning Tolerance was problematic in parts but helped to pave the way for a variety--"

"There will always be intolerant religions by the proof that consistently through history there have always been intolerant religions," Grantaire says as he sits back in his seat, "You can't simply cut those out and pretend there's tolerant due to that suppression."

Everyone watches with varying degrees of amusement. Some worry Enjolras might short circuit and have an aneurysm while others find Grantaire's whole nonchalance the best part of it all.

"I'm not arguing for suppression, but what other mechanisms can keep their intolerance--"

"Was it not Sewell who argued that different religions led to a stronger state?"

"That's exactly what I'm arguing, tolerance for different--"

"With a semi-intolerant anachronism, yes of course."

"Will you take a damn seat and listen to me for a moment!" Enjolras finally yells over the sound of the lower level cafe, silencing the whole place as he stands fuming like an enraged Apollo, jaw tight and hands clenched, his brow fraught with indignation.

Grantaire simply takes in that expression for a moment, that pure frustration personified in his eyes, before he continues with his farce, dipping his head down and taking a swig of the bottle, "I have been listening Apollo. And your arguments simply don't convince me."

Enjolras is not entirely sure how to respond to that, but Grantaire doesn't give him much of a chance to. He leaves, after that, storming back down the stairs and out into the street, lighting up a cigarette right as the cold air hits him. He holds the cigarette with shaking hands, trying not to pace in place or something like a caged animal. He has all this nervous energy now and he's trying to stay calm enough to function when Jehan and Eponine come out the front door and approach him.

"What was all that about, Grantaire?" She asks, pulling on her coat she threw on in the hurry.

He shrugs, "I was tired of him being a know-it-all dick," he takes a long drag.

Jehan smiles a bit, "Well, at least you can talk to him now and have conversations. Even if they are arguments, small improvements."

Grantaire nods as he runs a hand through his hair and tugs on it, "Political theory is a lot easier to talk about than feelings."

"Exactly," Jehan nods, "Small improvements."

***

Grantaire continues to go to the meetings with Jehan and Eponine after that. This blond god who was once so unaffected by Grantaire's presence, he likes being able to rile him up. Yes, he thinks he's beautiful for it and seeing all that passion put forth in one person, but it is also nice to know he is the one able to do that.

So he challenges him on Rousseau, on Locke, on Burke, Talleyrand, Sieyes, Jefferson, Voltaire. Enjolras likes to go old school and use the Enlightenment, but Grantaire is not afraid to take on Bayle. If he really strikes on point, he can even make Enjolras' left eye twitch.

Usually, their friends let it just happen. Jehan and Eponine are just happy he is no longer the mess he used to be after interactions with Enjolras. They never saw him at his worst, but they've heard the Grantaire narrate them at this point over booze. If expressing his emotions in these arguments is helpful for him, it's some kind of improvement. Enjolras meanwhile tightens his arguments significantly, everyone can see how his arguments are influenced between conversations around the cafe table to speeches at rallies. The utilitarian purpose of them all is likely why no one's objected to the entire thing yet.

What hurts, though, is that Enjolras is terrible to Grantaire, but Grantaire can see out of the corner of his eye when Enjolras actually smiles with Combeferre and even lets out a little laugh at Courfeyrac's jokes. Even the rest of Les Amis seem to be on infinitely friendlier terms than he has managed. After a few meetings, even Eponine can joke freely with him--when she's not focused too entirely on Monsieur Pontmercy--and Jehan gives him poetry recommendations, because if it's one thing the spoken poetry scene "does", it's social justice. They start to sit at the main, long table to talk to their respective "boo"s forcing Grantaire to be that much closer to Enjolras through most of the meeting, until he gets too fed up and retreats back to the corner.

In simply moving his seat though, he becomes inducted in other conversations and remembers how to be a socialized person after a while. Feuilly is usually sat near him, and they complain about their respective art programs (Grantarie in fine arts for painting, Feuilly in 2D design) and they manage to bond over the sheer shittiness of it all at times. He's a fiery redhead with a penchant for Poland, little scars on his fingers from when the boxcutter used for his works slip. He's usually sporting a couple of cuts, but when he shows Grantaire on his iphone some pictures, it makes sense. He does heavy detail work with light and holes and the guy's got the juxtaposition down to a T. Design students are always more creative than Grantaire could understand. His brain can't think like that, he works in figures, not simple forms.

Bahorel comes infrequently but always sits down next to Feuilly so invariably he's pulled into their conversations. His coiled hair is in a short cut with a strong beard growing and a deep laugh. He'll come in with cuts and bruises and Feuilly will frown but won't say anything otherwise. He boxes, both the legal and illegal kind, and Grantaire makes him promise to take him to a fight some time. Bahorel simply takes up a lot of space, both in his mannerisms and gestures and his voice which seems to come out louder than he realizes most of the time. It's all in good fun and all with good intentions.

Bossuet follows suit in this fashion, just kind of falling into their conversations by vicinity. He's a law student but not the uptight kind, which Grantaire is thankful for. He's got an easy disposition and hands out smiles all the time. He's like an awkward teenager still feeling out the edges of his body, clumsy to the smallest action of picking up glasses, but he always laughs it off.

Bossuet always sits next to Joly, who, despite his hypochondriases, is likewise in a similarly constant good mood. Grantaire's not surprised a medical student overdiagnoses himself, but Joly has vague symptoms that he mentions have been along for months now and even he isn't entirely sure what a possible cause could be. Only that he's sick, that it sucks, and that he can't do much about it. He explains all this while constantly sipping from his glass to get the water line wherever he seems to want it, putting on a napkin as a makeshift coaster that he keeps refolding as well. He seems unconcerned, yet precise, and Bossuet's hand finds its way to his back, rubbing circles. Grantaire can appreciate their close yet casual relationship. They seem good for each other.

Up by the head of the table is, of course, Courfeyrac who he's become well acquainted with. He banters back and forth with everyone, seeming sure of himself in every conversation. Grantaire likes watching him and Jehan talk back and forth. Certainly, they have their share of shallow conversations for flirtations sake but Jehan's able to pull a softer smile out of him now and then.

Combeferre he's only seen in passing up until now. He's like Enjolras in his beliefs and points, but the arguing styles are lightyears apart. His quiet is more a slow burning coal than the raging fire of Enjolras. He's more content to listen and observe then dismantle arguments with precise torpedoes than the would-be H-bomb of Enjolras. When there is a significant lull in the day, he takes out a well-marked up dictionary and continues what seems like a pet project, though Grantaire's not sure what it is exactly. There are color-coded tabs and chicken scratch pen marks. But for all his soft-spoken nature he is by no means cold, and always asks caring questions about Les Amis and their lives outside of the Cause.

Enjolras, however, sucks supremely in this field. He does not even think to ask beyond "How are you?" much more content to speak of ideas and plans. Besides towards Grantaire, he is not cold unnecessarily though, and can even be charming in his interactions with his good friends. That's just it though, it seems to only be with his good friends or those he specifically wants something from. He is a shining knight with too much armor on, and if Grantaire's only chance at pealing some of it back is upsetting him enough till the armor explodes, then so be his imperfect metaphor.

This goes on for many meetings and the semester seems to zip by. Grantaire keeps up his job and his artwork and his other classes and these meetings with a bit of a struggle, but he makes it work. His new friends are supportive either way and he's thankful for that. He's not "stable" but he falls into a routine, for certain.

Eponine jokes with him during a shift some time, "You keep telling me Courf and I should just go at it, but what's up with you and Enjolras?"

Grantaire looks up from the coffee he's setting to brew, "What about me and Enjolras? He's still a prick and I'm still a thorn in his side. Not much has changed," he shrugs.

Eponine raises an eyebrow with a bit of a smile, "Seriously? You argue with him every chance you get and you don't think there's any sexual tension there?"

"Since when are you interested in my sexual tension?"

"Since it became so thick, I could cut it with a knife and serve it on a piece of toast." She puts down the cleaning rag in her hand, “Trust me; I know it when I see it."

Grantaire huffs, pouring out the gross stale coffee, "Or maybe he just hates me."

"If he hated you, he'd kick you out. We both know he's not that polite to put up with someone he hates."

Grantaire chuckles a bit at that, "Very true, but still." He sighs quietly as he watches all the coffee pour out, "I'm not getting my hopes up again. I'm finally able to talk to him, let's not ruin this just yet."

Eponine nods, but doesn't push it.

Not now, at least.

***

It's March when the issue is revisited. Enjolras is dealing with all the excitement of midterms and Grantaire is half-heartedly "planning" his mid-semester projects by watching Enjolras for inspiration. He's so much more wound up now, and everyone assures him this is just how he always gets, but the cruelty comes out much quicker now, going from actual argumentation to personal comments hurled from either side.

"You're falling back on protesting tropes everyone has become desensitized to. Some students with a microphone making speeches, who seriously is going to listen to that?" Grantaire asks, already pretty drunk. "There are always rallies going on and there is never change being made, what difference do you seriously think you're going to have?"

"We can't all be useless cynics like you," Enjolras throws back, "some of us are trying to enact real change and it takes these 'pointless rallies' to do so. Just sitting and being complacent in oppression doesn't change anything for certain!"

"Your 'oppressed masses' aren't the ideal you seem to hold them to, either. They're normal people who are complacent and just sit around. A rally isn't going to change that."

"That is the entire point of a rally, to rally people."

"So you do that for a few hours, then what? Do you seriously think you're shaking up some public consciousness?"

"Yes," Enjolras says, like it was obvious. Like he's certain. Like there's no room for doubt of this simple truth.

Grantaire scoffs, "Your reckless idealism will be ruined one day. This world will beat it out of you, maybe even literally." Grantaire says, eyes locked and neither can tear away despite the long silence.

Combeferre has to interrupt and pull them out of that one.

***

It doesn't come to a head until the "birthday party of the year," as it were. Courfeyrac spares no expense, despite all of Enjolras' frustrations with the capitalist system he is most certainly buying into right now, but even Enjolras can't help but smile at how excited his friend is. He buzzes with energy in the preparations, making sure it really will be the rager he so rightfully deserves as the resident flirt. They've all received an invitation and he's talked it up for multiple weeks preceding that Grantaire is convinced half the campus is invited.

They're at Jehan's place getting ready, because like hell are he and Eponine letting Jehan dress himself for "the party of the year," even if it is his boyfriend's.

"Courf doesn't care what I wear," Jehan mildly protests as he slides on a pair of jeans that Grantaire has vetoed before and will veto again.

"Yes, but the effort is always a nice sentiment," Eponine says as she pulls more things from the explosion of his closet. No wonder he can never put together a coherent outfit.

"If the point is to dress 'sexy' so he'll sleep with me, that's not even a question tonight," Jehan continues as he picks through the pile of suggested clothes, "If a foursome with some girls is going to make him happy tonight, then that's what he should do. We have an open relationship entirely for this reason, I'm not going to try and compete with them."

Grantaire sighs, as he pulls out a few pieces and puts them in Jehan's arms, "It's not about competing with them. It's the sentiment of putting effort into what you wear for hopefully his benefit. It's like a gift, kind of?”

Jehan raises an eyebrow but changes, "I don't understand how sexiness can be a 'gift,' in our relationship,” he starts pulling on the black skinny jeans anyways, “but if it'll make you two happy, fine.”

Eponine and Grantaire both offer him a bit of a smile as he puts on what ends up being the final outfit, black jeans with his worn combat boots and a floral shirt. He works it well.

When they arrive at Courfeyrac's party, the place is poppin'. Courfeyrac has convinced everyone on this floor of the dorm to open their rooms up for the party, some containing strobes, others just dark, a few with lights to get drinks from in makeshift bars. Students pour out as more people join the mass of bodies. It is absolutely insane but they catch a glimpse of Courfeyrac soon enough in one of the room with booze, pouring a drink to a cute blonde with cropped hair. They all kind of file in, firstly to say hi to Courf but secondly because they might as well get drinks now. Jehan comes up beside him and places a hand on the small of his back, which he turns into happily.

"Hey," he almost-shouts, obviously pretty drunk now but Courf is always excited even sober. He kisses Jehan's cheek with a quiet giggle, "You got here just in time, the party's finally getting good."

Jehan's arm stays around his waist as he smiles, "Somehow I doubt that, but happy birthday."

Eponine and Grantaire likewise pay their respects to the birthday boy before he gets tugged off by some other friends who insist that Courfeyrac dance with them right now. The whole thing is a sensory overload and a half, and Grantaire both loves it and hates how it winds him up, so he pours himself two shots extra before he downs the concoction. They're all pulled onto the dance floor by the shear flow of the party, grinding and being grinded upon and grinding with one another. About an hour of straight dancing later, Grantaire needs more booze and a break, so he excuses himself back to one of the less-occupied rooms with alcohol.

He makes a b-line for the whiskey and 7-up when he feels eyes on him. He looks over to see Enjolras strewn on the couch with a red cup in his hand, looking Grantaire up and down. Grantaire stares back for a moment before giving a bit of a smile, trying to be nonchalant as he goes back to pouring his drink, "Are you enjoying the party?"

Enjolras makes a noise and looks down at his cup, "Not exactly my scene."

"So you're going to sulk on the couch?" Grantaire asks as he uncaps the soda. "At least dance with someone."

"Are you asking me to dance?” Enjolras asks with an unimpressed look but calm tone, “Is that what this is?"

"No," Grantaire looks back over to him, "I'm not."

Enjolras pulls his legs up onto the couch, wearing high boots and black shorts and Grantaire wants to check out his legs but now is not the time for this.

Grantaire goes back to finishing his drink, but he can't just leave it at this, "Why do you hate me so much? It can't just be because I disagree with you."

Enjolras' eyes slide back to Grantaire, "I don't hate you," he says then takes another drink. "But do you seriously think I’m enthralled with you or something after all that previous bullshit you pulled?"

"What bullshit?" Grantaire asks, holding his cup tightly.

"You are not actually asking me that right now, are you?" despite the alcohol Enjolras seems pointedly argumentative now, "You cannot actually be asking me that."

"And what if I am?"

"You--" Enjolras sits up properly, the usual passion rising even if his words are a bit slowed, "The first time we met you stared at me I'll a fucking freak show and spilled water all over me. And then not only do you sass me over winter break, as if that's so damn sexy to be rude, you have the nerve to ask me out like I'd actually agree. You are not seriously asking me why I, as a man who wears skirts daily and has dealt with all manner of sexual harassers and fetishists, would not exactly be on good terms with you."

Grantaire blinks, "I hadn't thought--"

"I can be charming, and I can be nice, and my friends can attest that I am more than the statue you make me out to be," Enjolras chugs the rest of his drink and sets the cup down. "But I don't owe you any courtesy."

Grantaire's a little speechless right now, eyes roaming the room as he tries not to feel so small and claustrophobic for a moment, "I wasn't--You're not--"

Enjolras just sighs and stretches more on the couch, uninterested in whatever excuse Grantaire will come up with.

"I thought you were beautiful," he starts speaking slowly because there are a lot of thoughts and a lot of feelings but he doesn’t have all the time to figure them out right now, "not because you were in a skirt but because you look beautiful. You are beautiful and you were so intently asking me questions, I panicked and got flustered. And I'm sorry for that mess and I'm sorry for all of it," his speech is starting to get pressured now as he explains, "I was trying to be friendly to make sure there were no hard feelings, because the water was an actual mistake," Grantaire feels his hand shaking and there are tears that want to press forward but he has to set this straight first, "And when I asked you out, it was because I'd developed a stupid crush on you, this guy I barely knew, and I wanted to get to know you better. I'm a sarcastic fuck and I'm shitty with jokes and I didn't think someone like you could actually exist, someone so single-mindedly dedicated to his 'cause' and all. So my jokes were stupid and uninformed and I'm sorry," Grantaire puts the drink down because he can't stop the tremors. "I'm sorry and you deserve better than my selfishness and I'm sorry and--" he feels light-headed.

Enjolras sits up more attentive now, "Grantaire?"

Grantaire's caught up in his own thoughts and everything sounds like it's underwater, even as he feels two hands on his cheeks and Enjolras' sure eyes staring at him from up close, "Grantaire, look at me. I need you to breath."

Breathing? It sounds familiar. He looks back in his memory banks for just how to make his mouth work and force air into lungs--

 

When he wakes up, he's on the same couch, Enjolras sitting next to his head on his phone, texting furiously. Grantaire's whole body comes into focus like the static from TV, as he feels out the edges of his skin. His head isn't that fuzzy anymore, he just feels slow.

"Hey?" He asks quietly.

Enjolras immediately turns his attention back to him, "Grantaire? Can you hear me right now?"

"God, yes. My ears are fine," He says, not bothering to try and sit up just yet though he feels his faculties returning. It's this hazy feeling that everything is fine and dandy but he's pretty sure they're not. It feels like he missed a lecture in class and has to catch up to participate in the discussion.

Enjolras nods, "Can I get you anything right now? Do you feel like you're going to faint again?'

"Seriously. It's fine, I'm fine, you can go now," he smiles a bit for reassurance. "I'll be walking in under ten minutes, I just need a little break for now."

"I'm not leaving you here alone."

"You said it yourself, you don't owe me anything, we're not even friends--"

"I wouldn't leave anyone here alone after something like that. You fucking scared me," he's looking at him intently, though given the angle Grantaire's looking at him upside down.

"Enjolras," Grantaire says absently, trying not to let him fall into the comfort of being so close to him for the first time now, "Look, I really really like you," he says quietly, "I really like you because you're smart and you've memorized Rousseau and you get so passionate, and because you really do care about all the shit with your volunteering and things, which I don't really get, but it's a good look on you, caring for animals and all. Um. And you're really beautiful. Not just when you're in a dress or something, but like. Yeah."

Enjolras raises an eyebrow but doesn't say anything.

Grantaire sighs, "Sorry, I'm being dumb because I just fainted, but if you ever want to, my offer of a date still stands. I want to make up my previous dickwad-ness to you."

Enjolras is quiet for a few moments and Grantaire feels singularly self-conscious and kind of wants to disappear right now. After another second, he nods. It's not exactly enthusiastic but it's a yes and Grantaire will take it. He lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. Tonight might not be such a shitshow after all.


	8. Bone-Deep Mercy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fin  
> (quotes form derrick brown)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all i can do is apologize

> _We welcome you new crawling psalms,_  
>  you drunk choirs  
>  you gouged melodies  
>  you nasty bags of glowing mercy.  
>  We welcome those with unpaid bone tariffs  
>  those raised by the missing  
>  those boys who got lost in the eyes of another boy  
>  those who loved the cities that hated them  
>  those who kept putting on their gloves for boxing the sanity out  
>  those who couldn’t scratch their golden tickets because their nails  
>  were ground down from clawing their own way out of their father’s casket  
>  those who couldn’t get skinny enough to get to the front of the line  
>  those who couldn’t stand anymore so they built splints out of words,  
>  out of their own words,  
>  Depth charges, yes!  
>  The choir charging the audience with tambourines in their teeth, yes!  
>  Kick me when I’m up, yes!  
>  Hallelujah, we are fucked! Yes!

They decide to do hangover brunch the next day, though Grantaire is really the only one sporting a hangover. He wears his usual Ray-Bans and dresses as nice as he can manage with the kind of headache he has. He tries to get there early but still ends up about 5 minutes late. Enjolras waits at the front of the cafe, easy to spot in bright red cigarette pants and a sweater.

"Hey," Grantaire smiles, exhausted but hopeful.

Enjolras offers him a bit of a smile, "Hey yourself." He’s trying to be charming here and treat this like he would any normal date, but there is an edge of worry this’ll just devolve into yelling as usual. He notices the sunglasses and chuckles, "You didn't drink water like I told you to, did you?"

"Water helps you sober up, and who says I ever wanted to do that?"

Enjolras sighs through his nose but doesn't comment, going into the cafe instead.

Grantaire desperately needs all the espresso to get in his body right now, but Enjolras is able to enjoy his morning. For the first time, they actually discuss more common topics, such as Grantaire's paintings (not the ones all about Enjolras he only does when shitfaced, mind you), Enjolras' upcoming thesis, the shelters he volunteers at, Grantaire's job at the cafe. The topics are pedestrian but not unenjoyable. He likes seeing Enjolras get worked up about his preliminary thesis research--mathematical simulation comparing the French Revolution, the 1968 strikes, and the current political climate. It's over Grantaire's head in a lot of ways, but it's also adorable how he gestures excitedly with a piece of toast sticking out of his mouth.

"At first I wasn't interested in using math, you know, because I thought it'd leave out a big qualitative aspect, but there's such an emphasis of math and science, I was afraid it wouldn't be taken seriously if I didn't,” he explains as he takes a bite, “and I do recognize the importance of hard data when it comes to these movements that already have a lot of qualitative analysis already."

"So you added in math to sound smarter so people would listen?" Grantaire asks as he takes another bite.

Enjolras nods, "Sadly, that's the gist of it.” He shrugs, “It's ridiculous how the sciences are favored so much more than the humanities."

"I don't know," Grantaire shrugs, "there's no way I could make math models or even anything more advanced than arithmetic."

"So?" Enjolras asks over another bite, "That doesn't mean you're less smart or less legitimate."

"I put glorified liquid plastic on stretched cloth for my major. I'm like a cave-dweller compared to you."

"Do you seriously believe that?" Enjolras stops, looking at him with a furrowed brow like he can't understand.

Grantaire shrugs and looks up from cutting his omelet.

"Grantaire," he leans in closer using a sure tone of voice, "you are pretty and smart."

Grantaire can't help the blush after that.

So no, the date does not crash and burn. Grantaire pays as a thank you that Enjolras didn't leave him comatose on the floor last night. They do not have a good night kiss, but they do resolve to try another date, because really it wasn't so bad at all. It might have even been good.

***

With the start of this relationship, however, things are bound to escalate. They don't stop arguing during meetings, but the framing's different. Grantaire still disagrees with every one of his points and he can't let it just slide, he's too stubborn and too fucked up for that. But Enjolras stops calling him useless so there's progress being made somewhere. But with every reminder from Grantaire that it will never be enough, Enjolras just takes that as a challenge to do more. It's a productive challenge for him and helps him tighten his arguments, tighten his planned protest, keep everything just so.

Grantaire still sees Enjolras as a real-life Apollo, despite the growing closeness. He finds him even more amazing, if that's at all possible. Grantaire, who has such little self-confidence even on a good day, finds himself loved by Enjolras, finds self-esteem in the form of Enjolras' small compliments. He finds him even kinder because he gives Grantaire compliments when he feels so undeserving of them. He entrusts all this to him.

They keep it simple, vowing over a movie night gone cuddly that they’ll take it slow and just see where they end up. Once hanging out with one another ceases to be fun, they’ll stop. And that’s all there is to it. Grantaire’s still surprised a month in when Enjolras’ hand somehow finds its way to his when they’re walking. Grantaire puts the request in to the café manager to get “fairtrade organic soy milk” and Enjolras stops by during Grantaire’s shift now and again. Usually, it’s because he’s finally thought of the perfect rebuttal from an argument they fell asleep during the night before. But sometimes, it’s just because. Jehan or Eponine or anyone else who’s there when Enjolras comes in with his knee-high boots always gives Grantaire a look that he just blushes at.

But Enjolras had explained that he wasn’t going to put anything on hold for Grantaire, that he still had his dedication to the Cause and he’d do his best, but… But. Grantaire had never expected speaking to Enjolras on friendly terms, let alone dating, so he agreed immediately. But as the semester winds down, Combeferre starts to find Enjolras passed out on his laptop rather than properly in bed so many times he loses count. The upcoming rally in May to commemorate the 1968 protests is their largest. Usually they would use the date for informational workshops or the like, they sit and discuss jobs for everyone: Jehan with Bahorel working publicity, while Courfeyrac is the outreach manager with Bossuet and Marius. Joly and Combeferre are in charge of grant-writing and permits, and Grantaire and Feuilly on graphic design.

Enjolras is handing out a preliminary mock-up, sitting at a smaller table with Grantaire, as Feuilly has a shift at work and has missed this meeting.

"So I just sketched this quickly and I know I'm not nearly an artist,” Enjolras starts as he pulls a paper from his satchel, “but this is just for general placement of things right now," he says as he hands the sheet over to Grantaire.

He snorts as he looks it over.

"Excuse me?" Enjolras asks like a warning.

"I can shit out all the glitter and strobe lights I want on this to get people's attention, but no one's actually going to come to educational workshops about oppression except those who are already interested in that stuff."

Enjolras sits straighter, "We've held these in the past and they've been successful."

"How successful have they really been, numbers-wise? After having these, do you get more people to your rallies and protests or do they stay about the same? Who are you really educating here?" Grantaire asks as he hands the flier back.

Enjolras takes it, looking over it with a frown, "I may see your point."

Grantaire shrugs, "Just a thought.” He takes a sip of wine, “Don't mind me, I'll make the posters work and you have more important things to get together for all of this."

Enjolras has never been one to back down from this kind of challenge.

 

The next meeting, he scraps all the current plans. They're commemorating one of the largest protests in the history of France, and it deserves a bigger birthday party than this. So he changes the focus to coalition building and solidarity, reaching out to all the other student organizations around. Not only that, they extend outreach to even labor unions and the workers of the area. He plans big. He plans central locations and city permits, not just University room rentals, and this is the "big leagues" of protests now. The whole group can only jump on board enthusiastically and support their leader.

But Enjolras isn't good at "relationships" even when he doesn't have his biggest event to date to worry about; he consistently puts work before his partner, but this is what Grantaire expected. He knows he doesn't come first, he knows. And he never expected primary. But in the weeks leading up to the protest, he'd be lying if he said he didn't miss Enjolras.

So one evening he decides a surprise is in order.

He knocks on Enjolras' apartment door, carrying all the Chinese food he knows they both like, a few movies they both like (Amelie, Regular Lovers, and Bievenue chez les Ch'tis, because really you can't go wrong with those). He's planned a surprise: a quiet night in where they can be cute on the couch and that's all. But there's no answer even after knocking twice. So he calls only for it to go to voicemail, so he calls again, and once more voicemail. He knocks on the door loudly one final time before going to leave. As he turns his back, the door cracks open.

He sees Enjolras, hair falling out of his messy bun, stifling back a yawn, with dark bags under his eyes and generally looking like shit.

"Hey," he says slowly and almost warily, "What are you doing here?"

Grantaire blinks, "Um, I thought you could use a break."

Enjolras just stares at him from the door, tired expression still.

"I mean, I know you've been doing a lot, and the protest thing is in a couple days, but that's all the more reason to take a quick break, I thought." Grantaire holds out the food, "So I brought Chinese and movies and we'll keep it simple and it'll be fun?"

Enjolras nods, still working slowly like his brain is taking a lot longer to process, and moves to let Grantaire in. His apartment is the definition of a shit show right now, all manner of protest material strewn around. His books are in all kinds of disarray, his usual color-coded system now moved to a crowded floor.

Grantaire looks it over as Enjolras goes back to his laptop surrounded by books. Grantaire sits on the couch and sets out the Chinese food, "Apollo, do you have preferences for movies or food?"

Enjolras' desk isn't far from the couch, but he merely grunts in acknowledgement.

Grantaire sighs, "Can you at least move the laptop over here so we can eat together and the movie can be on in the background?"

Enjolras doesn't respond much to that, simply stands with the laptop and plops down on the couch. He eats a few bites but is still engrossed in his computer that Grantaire can't even attempt to cuddle with him throughout the whole movie. Finally when the end credits rolls, he doesn't bother putting in another one.

"Enjolras," he starts.

Enjolras hums in acknowledgement, looking up at him for a moment before turning his attention back to his document.

"Enjolras, I know work is important to you, but it'll all work out, you have planned this to a T and everyone else is helping," he turns on the couch to face him, "Really. I know how amazing you are with your plans and it'll all fall into place, so please, just take a break for tonihg." He scoots closer with a concerned look on his face, "You're pushing yourself too hard."

Enjolras has stilled and shuts his laptop, getting up from the couch, "I don't get to take a break. Right now, it won't be amazing. Right now, it won't bring the change we need."

Grantaire sits up and watches him move around the couch to look through papers on his desk, "Apollo, you always get to take a break when you want. You deserve the longest break, the longest vacation--"

"I don't deserve anything," Enjolras snaps. "It's France that deserves better; it's the people that deserve better. I don't deserve anything."

Grantaire stills at that, "Not even me?"

"No," Enjolras says then looks up at Grantaire, as if it was evident.

"If you're trying to be a selfless crusader right now, you better get off your high horse, Apollo--"

"I'm not on any high horse!" he throws his papers down and paces.

"I'm trying to be reassuring right now, I know you're stressed but it'll all work out," Grantaire near-yells from the couch. He was trying to help Enjolras relax and now they’re getting into a screaming match.

"Well, don't." Enjolras turns to face him, "Because right now, it's not going to work out and your words are infinitely unhelpful, Grantaire."

"Jesus fuck, do you always get like this when--" He stands too quickly, bumping his knee on the coffee table and spilling lo mein on the open books and papers. "Shit shit sht," he re-rights the container but the grease is already seeping in.

Enjolras stands there, staring at the table with an open mouth. His body is rigid and his voice is low, like he is about to literally explode like a time bomb.

"You need to go."

Grantaire approaches him about to argue when Enjolras cuts him off, "We've talked about where the Cause and where this all fits in to my life, and if you can't respect that, then you need to go."

He doesn't know what to say to that. He wants to protest but suddenly it feels like all the wind's been knocked out of him; he thought he was being a good boyfriend but it's the complete opposite effect. So he nods a tiny bit and lets himself out, Enjolras' eyes still affixed on the ruined papers.

His brain feels all fuzzy, like he's swimming through molasses in his though process. Like everything is in slow motion. So he heads home, legs on autopilot all the way up the stairs, all the way into his room, all the way to his liquor stash. The burning in the back of his throat helps to get the gears turning, but he's still not sure if they're broken up but he's knows he's fucked up, yet again, like he always seems to manage with Enjolras. He can't parse through feelings, just feels them wash over him and he feels so swept away by it all. He wanders around his apartment, pacing, pulling at his hair, trying to keep his breath even. When he reaches for more alcohol, his hands shake as he holds the glass too tight. Taking shot after shot in a methodical sort of way.

***

He finds himself knocking on Jehan's door some time later. He doesn't know how much later. But it's later. Jehan opens it, opens it with his hair all tousled like it much be really late now. Grantaire's pupils are blown up like an H-bomb because he took something. Doesn't remember what. But something's in his chest wanting to claw its way out and he's moving into Jehan's room before his mind can catch up.

He's mumbling, "It's over. I fucked it up, it's completely over. And I don't know what to do now, I just can't handle this. I can't handle this. I can't handle him," as he paces around, gesticulating but clearly out of it. Jehan shuts the door quietly and stands at the edge of the room, giving Grantaire the space he needs as he breaths. Grantaire just keeps talking, he's rambling and he knows it and he might be crying too, but Jehan just waits until he quiets down and can maybe carry on a conversation. He talks about everything in their relationship, the minutia to the way Enjolras would snore when he slept to the dicks he drew just to make Enjolras blush. He laughs at that story, loud and manic and it just devolves into crying eventually because, "It's over. It's really over."

Grantaire again finds himself in a different position he doesn't really remember getting into, his head on Jehan's lap as he lies on his bed, Jehan's hand carding through his hair.

"Feeling a little better, now?"

Grantaire turns to look up at Jehan, "I want to cut my hair."

Jehan tilts his head, confused, "Wait, why?"

Grantaire sits up, "I just want to do it."

He doesn't say anything more, just stands and heads to the bathroom, where Grantaire follows him. He takes out a pair of clippers and points for Grantaire to sit on the toilet as he starts them up.

"Are you sure?" He asks one more time.

"Cut it off," he says, hearing his voice crack, but really, he needs this. He tells himself he needs this new beginning.

Jehan starts at the base of his skull and works his way around, giving him a tight crew cut with a bit longer on the top so he doesn't look horrible. The curls fall to Grantaire's shoulders and he keeps himself sitting still, bites his lip the whole time as he feels them fall off.

When Jehan finishes, Grantaire stares in the mirror at himself and lets out a sob of a laugh, "Fuck. I do not have a cute head."

Jehan looks at him in the mirror too, then takes the clippers and shaves a big line straight again his scalp.

Grantaire gapes at him, "What are you doing?"

"Solidarity," he replies immediately, continuing to cut his strawberry hair short and tight till there's barely any left.

When the last lock falls to the tile floor, he smiles over at Grantaire. A beat passes before Grantaire grabs him and just kisses him hard, running his hand through the new short hair. At first, Jehan stills and Grantaire pulls back. Their faces are still close, but he feels his heart up his throat and he’s about to apologize because _seriously how many times can he fuck up in one night_ when Jehan puts his hand on Grantaire’s cheek. Another beat passes when all he can hear in his heart beating so loudly, when Jehan leans in and kisses him. He kisses back as they clumsily make their way out of the bathroom before falling on the floor and not bothering to make it to the bed.

 

Sleeping with Jehan is easy. They seem to know all of each other's soft spots, the right way to make the other moan, how to satisfy the little cravings. Being with Jehan is easy in all the ways being with Enjolras isn't and Grantaire tells himself this is what he needs right now. This is what makes sense.

***

The next day he wakes up with an undercut and a pain in the bottom of his spine and he's not sure if that's the sign of a good night or not. He's still on the floor, curled up with a blanket, while Jehan has left a note on the door saying he's gone out to get breakfast, Grantaire is free to use the shower, he can wait for breakfast or not if he chooses. Things are easy.

He takes his time getting ready and dressed but Jehan still isn't back yet so he just leaves, figuring this is a conversation that can happen later. He knows Enjolras will be running around wildly as this is the day before a protest, but he can't imagine himself wanted anywhere near it right now, so he retreats to his room. For the first time in what seems like forever, he texts his sister to get on skype once he knows she’s out of school.

He smiles her image on the screen and she asks what’s wrong—because of course something’s wrong. His smile falters and he signs _one minute_ while he goes into the kitchen to make (spiked) coffee and decides how much he wants to tell her. He spends most of the day curled up in the softest blanket he can find, cross-legged on the floor, signing to her well into the evening until she really has to do homework. He tells her about Enjolras and shows her a picture he managed to sneak of him when he wasn’t look. Despite being really photogenic, he hates cameras, Grantaire explains with a fond expression his sister beams at. He likes skyping with her best because he has to always be looking at her image on the screen; he has to be fully engaged. It’s the best distraction he’s had in a while.

***

He wakes up in the middle of a floor for the second day in a row. He doesn’t have a hangover really, despite a liberal amount of Bailey’s in his coffees. He finally turns his phone on as he cleans up the strewn around bottles and puts on real pants. It floods with messages immediately, and he knows they're probably all about the protest but he doesn't want to put up with that right now.

He gets all the way home and takes some pain killers before he opens the most recent one, from Jehan, a simple:

_Fuck You._

He lets out a long sigh before heading to Jehan's place, because really, whatever this is about, he'd rather hear about it in person than try to piece it together with text messages.

 

He knocks once, twice, and is starting a third time when Jehan opens the door, sour expression on his face.

"Grantaire, where the hell have you been?"

Grantaire shrugs. Any warm fuzzy feelings from his sister are gone now. “I just stayed in my room yesterday,” he explains.

"You were--" Jehan throws up his hands, "You were seriously just sitting around, doing nothing in your room?"

Grantaire likes keeping home and school separate so he just nods, "I know some shit seems to have gone down, but as of right now, I'm still not sure what it was, so if you would do me a great favor and fill me in?"

Jehan scowls at him, "Enjolras is in the hospital!"

Grantaire feels his heart sink like a lead weight in the ocean.

"What?" He asks in a whisper.

"The protest turned into a riot and of course, he fought with the police and was fucking beaten within an inch of his life," Jehan explains with quietly but still fuming. "The only reason I am not there right now is because they finally did go to him. the only reason you are not there right now, is because you, Grantaire, are busy being the biggest asshole on the face of the planet."

Grantaire feels a knot in his stomach coil and he thinks he might be sick or pass out or who the fuck knows now. "I'm sorry," He says quietly, "I'm so sorry Jehan."

Jehan's still frowning but he’s trying to sound calm, "You should go to him," He says gentler than before but still assertive. "Before you do something stupid, you should get out of my doorway, go see him, and talk things out."

Grantaire nods, scratching at the nape of his neck where the hair is full of baby curls the sheers missed, "'kay."

He tries to steady himself emotionally, really he does, and make good decisions, but all he feels right now is shame as he descends the steps and walks onto the street. He needs alcohol in his system, not just for the emotional shit but alcoholism dictates an antsy feeling. It's a familiar friend to retreat to, to numb his emotions enough that he can start to process them, that he can be coherent when he sees Enjolras again. He really does mean to go to the hospital.

 He heads to the studio where he knows he can lock himself up for a day with a bottle of jack daniels (or two) and a set of acrylics and not be disturbed while he tries to rescrew his head on. He drinks his hangover away and functions off paint fumes alone, eating whatever's in the vending machine down the hall. He effectively shuts his world down for a day, painting all of the feelings he tries to forget. All his canvases turn into red and gold with black seeping through, like a Meidner painting set aflame. He paints the world at incorrect angles, always swaying, always about to crumble. He paints Enjolras' body, that singular form in all the studies and positions he can think of. He fills a canvas with torsos and limbs but never his face. He can't handle that just yet.

 

Eventually, he does run out of booze and his back is too stiff from sitting and painting all day. He wanders out of the studio unshaven and unwashed, and nowhere near sober. He has the mental faculties to at least stop home and check there first, taking a moment to shower and change, but he'd already drank through most all of his stash in the previous night of his binge-drinking haze. He searches under the bed, the back of the closet, the window seat, everywhere he usually has the foresight to keep at least a smaller bottle--but no luck. With a hefty sigh he heaves himself out of his room and goes looking for a college party. He doesn't want to face the reality of the situation yet. There's a bubble of anxiety at the base of his diaphragm as he puts off the inevitable, but that just means he has to drown it out with more alcohol.

***

He finds one, of course. It's not hard. It sounds like there are a few in the dorm buildings around but they sound small and intimate. Grantaire needs a rager he can lose himself in, where he can forget existence smooshed between other bodies, when he forgets his edges and his being. He wanders down a few streets around campus, heading to the notorious party dorms because it's simplistic and makes sense. There's a party in one of the dorm building's higher floors, blasting loud music that'll get shut down in a couple hours, but it's early enough that right now the neighbors won't call and they'll still have a lot of booze. Grantaire slides in, doing a good job blending in while making a B-line for the bar. While he's here, he figures he might as well have some fun, letting himself get caught up dancing because it's so much easier than keeping any control of his body. Letting go in the music just makes sense. He'll see Enjolras soon, really he will, but right now he lets the heavy beat pound out the anxiety in his pit. He grinds on girls, boys, everyone with a cute smile and a nice ass. He's not sure when he became versed in the body language of dance floor romantics, but he knows how to move his hips to get someone interesed. It's an acquired skill that's gotten him a lot of free drinks in clubs before and throughout the evening, he dances in turn two cute girls and a bear of a guy, one after the other, never spending too long without a partner. 

Eventually he finds a person with jet black hair he can't tell if they're a guy or a girl but they are all studded leather and sickening undercuts, slaying the scene and bad bitches are going to deal. The face looks familiar but he can't entirely place it, though he's pretty sure he'd remember if he'd ever met someone so hot in person. Either way, he approaches with red cup in hand and hips a-swayin' to the music. They dance together, not really grinding but they're definitely in each other's orbit like this person with the leather pants is a black hole and Grantaire can't help but get sucked in.

About halfway through the second song it hits him, "Wait!" He yells over the music, "I know you, Eponine showed me a picture."

Studded-leather raises an eyebrow, piercing and all, then smiles something dangerous, "You know Eponine?"

Grantaire nods, "Fuck if we're going to talk about Eponine I need another drink," he says as he moves away, stumbling a bit.

"Hey, hey," Studded-leather grabs his wrist, "you don't need anymore, bud."

Grantaire shakes his head, "I can't even deal with thinking about them all right now this sober," his words are obviously slurred and it comes out more like "shober."

Studded-leather sighs and takes his hand, tugging him off the dance floor, "Come on, if you know Eponine and I leave you, I'll never hear the end of it."

Grantaire is pliant and lets himself be tugged along to the couch, where he deflates into the cushions. He curls up against it, sipping whatever bit is left in his cup. He hears studded-leather ask if he'll be alright, but he's not listening right now, falling back into his own thoughts.

So this person sits with him, stretching out like a panther, dangerous but still alluring and Grantaire sees why Eponine was so attracted.

Grantaire's just kind of thinking out loud, "Eponine said you were bad news."

The pierced eyebrow is raised again, "Oh?"

"What was your name again?"

"Montparnasse," Grantaire thinks the name sounds like dark chocolate.

"Are you gay, Montparnasse?" Grantaire leans in as he asks, "It's okay if you don't wanna tell me, I'm just wondering I'm sorry if I'm being offensive right now, feel free to kick me out on my ass," he drunk rambles a bit.

Montparnasse crosses their legs and discerns whether to disclose or not for a moment. It’s not exactly the biggest secret, people can probably tell by looking at her, but still. After a few moments she responds, "I'm lesbian, so yes."

Grantaire nods in consideration as he tries to sip the last few drops in his cup, "Eponine is one lucky motherfucker."

She smirks a bit at that and shrugs, "Do you always talk about Eponine so much when you're drunk?"

"Well I'm always drunk, so I guess statistically, Eponine must make up only a small portion of what I say," Grantaire shrugs, hugging the cup to his chest.

"Well you're pretty plastered now."

"I do that sometimes, yes," Grantaire nods. "Booze quiets things down, and sometimes things get really loud, and then I'm just like," he puts his finger to his lips, "'shh, things.' I try to shush them but the booze makes it easier to."

"Things are loud?" She asks, humoring him because he’s a funny drunk right now.

"There's just too much of everything right now. Too much Enjolras," he says, feeling a wave of sadness just kind of hit him and he curls up more on the couch.

Montparnasse isn't in the mood to babysit Grantaire, but she's not such a bad person she'd leave him to drink more and poison himself.

Grantaire just keeps talking regardless, "Enjolras is my _ex_ ," he emphasizes, "my ex-boyfriend."

"So you're trying to drink away your break up," Montparnasse has picked up her own red cup from who-knows-where and drinks. She might not leave him alone but she certainly did not sign up to be anyone's designated driver.

"That's what I've been doing for a while," he nods. "You know, when I first met him, I spilled water like, like all over him and he was so fucking mad. And then like, every time we met he'd always be so fucking mad, and I like--I do that anxiety thing. I'm about that panic attack life, and having him there didn't fucking help," he says with a shrug. As the alcohol takes more and more effect, his tongue loosens up with regard to his personal issues.

"You were in a relationship with a guy who gave you panic attacks?"

"He was like, really nice though. When he wasn't being a little bitch, he like was really nice. And he like, actually believed I wasn't a total fuck up, you know? Like that was nice, no one had done that for me like he did. Like, he almost made me believe it for a second, because he's like. He's like, this really beautiful guy who's like doing math and history and revolutions and he like, volunteers at a people shelter and animal shelter, and he like drinks the fair trade organic bullshit but not because it's cool," Grantaire says, then shifts his position so he's facing the rest of the party more. "I totally didn't think people like him existed, I thought it was like, all an act from hipsters. But he seriously like believes in it all, and good lord he's like Apollo but like, 24/7. Like, Apollo isn't an exaggeration at all." Grantaire gestures throughout this as Montparnasse stares at her cup, nodding along every now and then, "and I know I look like, fucking stupid. I did not win the genetic lottery, I look like a weirdo on a good day, and I'm doing art, like I could never do the math shit he does." Grantaire rubs his eyes, speaking in a quieter voice, "And I like just really, don't like myself. In like a really bad way. And it's been this way for a long time, but it just meant a lot to have him not hate me, you know?” he finishes with a sigh, tired of talking.

Montparnasse glances over at him, "And?"

"And then he had a protest and I just wanted him to calm down, but I acted like the biggest dick. I was such an asshole and now he's in the hospital, and I'm more of an asshole for not seeing him, but I don't know if he wants to see me? And now I'm making myself sad, so I think another drink should happen," He says as he starts to pull himself up.

Montparnasse grabs his wrist and gently tugs him back down, "You're doing fine how you are."

Grantaire falls back into his half-curled up position, looking like a kicked puppy, "I just keep fucking things up with him. And I'm trying really hard but then I fuck myself up more. And I just like, want to apologize to the world for existing. Because I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," he has tears in his eyes now.

Montparnasse lets out a soft sigh, because really this guy is not in a good place right now, "Look. I think you're just," she shrugs, "I think you're just a person."

Grantaire looks up at her at that, confused about where this is going.

"I think you're just a person, trying to figure shit out, when you're dealing with a lot of shit even on a good day," she sips from her drink, as she thinks more on her words, "And it sounds like, Enjolras is a person too. And you seem to think he's some god or something, but I can guarantee he probably gets insecure and freaked out too. And just because you love all the little things he does and all his 'imperfections' doesn't mean you realize he's not perfect."

Grantaire's still quiet, staring at Montparnasse.

"So, if you look at it that way, that you're a person, and he's a person, and everyone's just people trying to figure out things and what makes them happiest, then I think it's okay if you fuck up sometimes, and it's okay if it's other people's fault sometimes, and it's okay if they really fuck up sometimes too."

"Um," Grantaire says quietly, "Um, I think I'm going to be sick."

"Wait what?" Montparnasse sits up.

"Uh, yeah. Definitely sick."

***

Montparnasse does leave the party with Grantaire that night, but they go to Eponine's. After he puked all over the couch, and down the stairs, and out into the street, and down most of the block, he's finally feeling alright to go home, but Montparnasse makes the executive decisions he's not well-enough to make the walk back to his place. So Montparnasse has Grantaire leaning heavily on her shoulder, trying to text Eponine that the drunk-sick-fest is coming to her doorstep.

Montparnasse looks over at Grantaire on her shoulder, "Hey. I need you to listen for a second."

Grantaire gives her a lazy smile and hums in acknowledgment.

She fixes him with a sharp look at first so he understands that this is serious, but when she opens her mouth she fumbles for the phrasing, "Don't--With Eponine. I mean, about me. Don't--"

 

Even though Grantaire has spilled the contents of his stomach all over the side of the road multiple times, he figures out what she's trying to say. "Tell her that you are a beautiful angel who has saved me this fine evening?" He gives her a quieter smile now, "Don't worry; I'll leave that to you."

Montparnasse doesn't smile back, but gives him a nod just as Eponine opens the door and descends the front stairs just as they're coming up to her building.

"Goddamnit Grantaire, you fucking scared us half to death!" Eponine comes up to him.

Grantaire smiles fondly at her, "This too shall pass in the morning with some water and aspirin."

She huffs as Montparnasse hands him off to her, and he hugs her around the waist. Eponine's about to apologize for him when Montparnasse kisses her cheek like the slickass girl she is and whispers something in Eponine's ear Grantaire can't distinguish he guesses it's along the lines of "Call me some time."

Eponine nods with a bit of a smile as Montparnasse heads out, before shooting Grantaire an annoyed look and helping him up to her couch.

***

When he wakes up, he's got a crick in his neck, but at least he's not on the floor again. There's two glasses of water and some pain killers on the coffee table which he quickly downs. He's shirtless (thank god, because sleeping in a puke shirt is not cute) and he'll deal with that conundrum later. Right now, he pads barefoot to Eponine's kitchen to get some coffee and basic sustenance. She's got two randomass roommates there who stare at him pointedly from their stools at the counter, but after he mutters an apology, he tunes them out of his mind. In the middle of making cereal, Eponine comes into the kitchen.

"Nice to know you didn't give yourself too severe alcohol poisoning last night."

"Nice to know you took my advice and bought frosted flakes," he says absently.

She shoots a look to her roommates so they leave quietly before turning back to Grantaire. "You can't keep doing this, Grantaire," She says seriously.

He nods, "I know." Then lets out a heavy sigh and his shoulders deflate, "I know. I'm going to see Enjolras today."

She smiles a bit and wraps her arms around from behind, hugging him as he finishes with his cereal. "Does that also mean stop with the other mess too?"

Grantaire nods, looking down at her olive hands against his tan skin, "Yes."

She gives him one finish squeeze before breaking the hug and leaving him in the kitchen. She doesn't want to push him right now, and gives him all the space he needs.

***

Grantaire borrows one of her oversized hoodies to at least get home with a shirt, and there he actually cleans himself up. He takes his time, properly shaving and showering. He cleans up the quick buzz job on his hair, making it more presentable. He doesn't look great, but he looks presentable for a guy who's spent the past few days living from one anxiety attack to another, one alcoholic haze to another. He dons his usual hangover-Ray-bans as he leaves his place.

The hospital a huge concrete building, Brutalist, he remembers from one of his art classes. It's absolutely ugly, down to the white linoleum floors and the smell of too much disinfectant and sickness. He speaks with the nice receptionist but she soon directs him to the waiting room, because they have actual shit to worry about, not Grantaire's personal life.

So he waits, as their machines beep and they rush all around. He sits in the hard, plastic leather chairs and stares at his messy converse, finally taking a moment to piece together the past few days. He's been on autopilot for the most part, the only idea at the forefront of his mind being "booze." But he knows that drowning his liver in alcohol is just another form of self-harm and it's unsustainable. He had that feeling before, but now, sitting in the crisp waiting room, he's able to formulate that phrase in his mind. He remembers bits and pieces, and last night especially, pouring his soul out to essentially a stranger while puking all over himself--not a good look. He wants to make things right and get some semblance of normalcy back, and not only for his own benefit, so he takes out his cell phone.

After two rings, "Grantaire?" He hears Jehan's voice on the other line.

"Hey, I just wanted to let you know I'm doing okay. I'm going to see Enjolras so I'll be at the hospital," he says matter of fact before getting quieter, "and I wanted to apologize."

He can hear Jehan's still frustrated with him, but his tone is compassionate, "Apologize for what?"

"I basically used you for sex as emotional support when I was feeling shitty," Grantaire explains. "Pretty sure that's grounds for an apology, and I'm sorry."

"Grantaire, I let you. Don't apologize for that--"

"You let me because you thought it'd help, and I thank you for being a concerned friend, but," he fidgets in the uncomfortable seat, "But like seriously, I'm sorry. I've fucked shit up recently and I'm trying to make it right, so please just let me apologize," he lets out a bit of a laugh at the end.

He hears Jehan sigh on the other line, "Okay. You know we all just want you to be healthy and happy, right Grantaire?"

"Yeah, I know," he smiles. "Thanks, Jehan. I'll see you soon."

"See you."

A few minutes after hanging up, a nurse comes by calling his name. Her ugly white shoes squeak a little on the floor as he follows her down long hallway after long hallway until finally they come to the room. It's not in the ICU or anything so Grantaire's thankful for that much at least. She reminds him when visiting hours end before letting him in and leaving.

Enjolras is all bruised up. His long hair has been cut short with tight wrappings around his head, a black eye forming with a few other bruises on the visible skin. He's sleeping right now, head turned at an angle that'll surely lead to a stiff neck, looking not like the peaceful angel of Grantaire's dreams but like a beaten up college kid. Grantaire sits in the uncomfortable plastic chair and takes Enjolras hand gently.

He listens to the quiet machine beeps for a few moments. He opens his mouth, then closes it. Opens it again, then closes it. He had a whole little speech in mind but his eloquence fails him and he feels so unprepared.

"I'm sorry," he starts quietly, "I'm so sorry. I put you on a pedestal to make up for my own issues, and without realizing it I gave you crazy expectations. And I think that makes me like, officially the worst boyfriend in the world," he lets out a little laugh, fingers just a ghosting touch on Enjolras'. "But, I really want to try this again with you. And I want to try and be better for you and for me too. Because I really love you."

He has more to ramble about but he feels a squeeze on his hand and Enjolras stirs, cracking his neck as he wakes up. Grantaire stills as he blinks the residual sleep from his bruised eyes and looks at  Grantaire.

"Grantaire," his voice is hoarse and slow from sleep, "Why are you crying?"

Grantaire squeezes his hand back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry.  
> [ extendednotes here because](http://angrygayfriend.tumblr.com/post/63449630655/extended-notes-more-um-so-im-a-rambly) I could write a tome about my feelings and this fic omg  
> Thank you everyone so much for your support and comments and like everything omg omg


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